This poem came to me unexpected. I had been experiencing a writing draught during the time of its writing. For months and months, I had been unable to produce even the most simple rhymes or short stories. As I sat at my desk that evening, laden with insomnia, staring at the blank sheets, frustration almost overwhelmed me. With my tired hand, I helplessly scribbled, "Poetry, poetry, please come to me." Then the poem did come.
Poetry, poetry, please come to me,
Under this pen that I offer to thee.
Thou art the fairest in literature’s realm;
Thou art the master of literature’s themes.
Thou art the dirge of all humankind’s tears;
Thou art the cry of all humankind’s fears.
Thou art the tune of all humankind’s joys;
Thou art the song which all nature employs.
Thou art the painter of history’s scenes;
Thou art the lantern of youth’s highest dreams.
Thou art the comfort when days roll in pain;
Thou art the minstrel when peace is regained.
Poetry, poetry, precious to me,
Come to me under this pen giv’n to thee.