TO MY PEN
IThou feeble implement of mind,Wherewith she strove to scrawl hername;But, like a mitcher, left behindNo signature, no stroke, no claim,No hint that she hath pined—Shall ever come a stronger time,When thou shalt be a tool of skill,And steadfast purpose, to fulfilA higher task than rhyme?IIThou puny instrument of soul,Wherewith she labours to impartHer efforts at some arduous goal;But fails to bring thy coarser artBeneath a fine...
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