On dewy grass I tossed and turned,
Ripped some, tore some, let some burn,
Blew some rings of pale moonlight
In inky darkness of the night.
Above me loomed a pockmarked sky
With buxom clouds whose heaves and sighs
Pierced me with a longing crisp
To write of then and days gone by.
I wrote with flaming heart and quill
Till th' silent breath of night stood still,
But alas, the ink too mocked my plight
And left my thoughts, to join the night.