My pen is still,
The ink is dry;
The words have gone,
Have passed me by.
No poems am I to write today;
The will to write has fled away.
But don’t be too sad if I don’t sing;
Another day a song I’ll bring.
The words I had that spoke of love,
Will come again, and soon, by Jove!
And into my fist my pen will fly,
And I’ll list the words that passed me by,
And lush words of love at last I’ll say,
And I’ll make up for this empty day!