He Writes Who Can’t

All expectant of what you’ll say
I wait the coming of true love’s day,
For I am tired and cannot write
Unless you shine your mental light.
I feel like stone of heavy weight
That sinks in river to his fate,
Down in the mud where joy is not,
And all fresh winds, fair birds forgot.
No echoes can he give to song,
Insensitive to all but wrong,
The wrong that’s his to be a stone
And dwell in water all alone.
And here in mud I sink e’en more;
The fishes gasp that I’m so poor;
I have no smile to give them back,
I cannot wink, or laugh a crack.
I gleam no mirror for their eyes,
But dull am I, un-luster-wise.
A crab slow crawls upon my head;
He thinks, “Is this old stone so dead
He cannot roll, enjoy his bed?”
A water-snake glides into view;
“Oh, gosh!” says he, “What’s wrong with you?”
For answer I can give him none;
He glides away to seek his fun.
While I, I write, who cannot write,
Through darkest night till you bring light.

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