The page, not empty, calls again to me,
To put my pen upon it, thus to see
What work can yield. I cannot from it flee,
That task which waits for such work as my hands
Can do. Such ever are my life’s demands
That I can rarely simply sit or stand,
But must rush to and fro as lizards dart,
To new tasks turning with each beat of heart
And hoping to address each with some art.
With pen in hand, I feel my tightening grip
Upon the shaft; I see my ink to drip
And hope that I let no task thusly slip
Without my doing well what I must do.
I must so hope if I can get me through.

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