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Poem by Walter Learned With Pen and Ink With pen and ink one might indite A sonnet, or indeed might write A billet-doux, or, eke to raise The wind, a note for thirty days. Not mine the poem; they'd send it back Or shove it into bric-a-brac. My flippant muse is never seen Within the solid magazine. And not for me the billet-doux; Indeed, who should I write it to? I would not thus employ my pen, Unless to woo my wife again. Ah me! the while I stop to think What Shakespeare did with pen and ink, I wonder how his ink was made, — If blue or purple was the shade; His pen,— broad-nibbed and rather stiff, Like this, or fine? I wonder if He tried a "Gillott," thirty-nine, Or used a coarser pen, like mine? Or was it brains? No ink I know Will really make ideas flow, Nor can the most ingenious pen Make wits and poets of dull men. So this the miracle explains, He used his pen and ink with brains. Mine is the harder task, I think, To write with only pen and ink. Walter Learned Walter Learned's other poems: ![]() 1190 Views |
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