Begin to write at ten
The poems you love so much;
Begin to write at ten,
Euphoria to touch.

You, you touch it,
It touches you;
The joy you feel
Gives life to you.

And love grows deep
For he who wrote
The poems which keep
Your soul afloat.

Your soul, your mind,
Are his, now, too;
You know each line
Was meant for you.

And you own, too,
Each word you write,
And press with joy
Your paper white.

So much he’s writ,
So much he’s done
To make you see
That you’re his one.

His one, his sun,
His shining star;
His place of light
Where e’er you are.

Now time to rest
Your happy head;
Lie down awhile
Upon your bed.

You know if he
Your rest could see
He’d surely write
More poetry!