The measured words of poetry
Rise round the mystic sphere,
Sift through the dirt or sing divine
In strains that soothe or sear.
But now the stanzas halt and freeze:
Eternity is stilled –
The dog looks guilty at the door
The poet’s muse is chilled.
Goodbye 'the crescent in the sky
Reaping a horde of crows,'
Holding his breath, he scoops the mess.
The muse must hold her nose.