Have not tons of poets written

Of the stars, the sun, the moon?

Have not hundreds, thousands written

Of the wide blue sky at noon?

.

And do not ever more of them

Tell of passion, lovers pain?

Start in happiness and then

Turn to chaos, tears in vain?

.

Say, does every autumn poem

Mention fogg and rustling leaves?

Really, do not all of them

Bear some similarities?

.

Seems like all there was to say

Was long made into poetry

In a far mor pretty way

Than could be done by little me.

.

Therefore, pen, rest on the shelf

From this hand no more words shall flow

Till somewhere inside myself

There’s something for the world to know.