With more sound than sense
you call me hence
my poetic muse
upon the fence

Laugh little sprite
into the night
as you wake me quick
and do not relent

One pen laid near
for these hidden ears
that drive the waves
inside quite clear

One page spread out
There is no doubt
that words will soon
fill all them here

What weary mind
can ever find
the harmony with
this endless rhyme?

What games indeed
do they lead
that draw this verse
all the time?