Already I have here a poem written,
But it was not of quality, I am sure;
O'er Shakespeare's metre had I harshly ridden,
And for its clumsiness I had no cure.
Why can't my head be filled with inspiration,
With bounteous fruit made pregnant and replete?
Why, when I write, does my imagination
Dry up, leaving my poems incomplete?
I know th'imagination must be given
All the time that it needs to spark ideas.
They say that it won't work if it is driven
and doing so confirm my im patient fears.
For now, I'll leave it, and come back refreshed,
And hope my thoughts will not be so enmeshed.