He thought to shape his writings into verse,

He pruned them down to language fixed and terse,

But finding that would give his tricks no play,

Spurned his reserve, and tried another way.

This time he dressed the naked words with care,

Trimmed them with adjectives and adverbs fair,

And studying every law of form and rhyme,

Pieced up his metre into studious time.

But still, whatever medium he chose,

His work remained poor, tortured, unsexed prose.

One dew-drenched eve, whilst pondering in the vale

He felt the leaves a-quiver in the dale—

Stooping, he caught a whisper from the sky

That slipped from out the twilight whimsically.

Its tender sorrow touched him as it fell,

Quickened his fancies, stirred his heart as well,

In reverent awe he heard its mystic call,

A heaven-born glory permeating all.[Pg 50]

[Pg 50]

He did not dare to pin that whisper down

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