My pen has ink enough, I'm going to start
A piece of verse, but suddenly my heart
And something in my head jerks in reverse.

I can't go on—I did, with switch in tense,
And here's the bleak, accusing evidence;
I don't know why, or even what I seek.

This thought jabbed hard: how insolent to make
These blurred attempts when Shakespeare, Donne and Blake
Have done what they have done. And yet it tempts,

This longing to make wicks of words, light lamps
However frail and dim. And, hell, why not?
I've had six children yet more casually got.