By Mrs. Rogers
Oh mute, machine, what figurest thou?
Thou hast no tongue to tell me now
The symbol thou art
Of a broken heart
Which no more can tremble or glow.
Some blow has crushed thy master spring,
Thou art a senseless, speechless thing!
And the voice that told
How time grew old,
Has done with its answering.
Silent wreck of the power of art,
Yes, thou art like a broken heart,
Which lies in the breast
With its pulse at rest,
And has ceased to quiver and Smart!
To it, in vain, on leaden wings,
Hopes, and sorrows, and cares,
Time brings; Its impulse is crushed,
Its answer is hushed,
A wreck are its wheels and springs!
The master-pulse is motionless,
Mute alike to sorrow or bliss!
Some mechanist's skill
May renew thee still,
But what art can remedy this!
From an 1827 collection of awful women's poetry. Or at least I thought it was awful until a friend reminded me of the speech in Shakespeare In Love where he tells a friend that his words are limp, his poetry unmanly, and the guy pretty much asks, "Having trouble getting it up these days?"
The good news: Python's "Grail" Goes Broadway. Woo hoo!
The bad news: I'm sick. Have my husband's horrible head cold, and cramps to boot. Feel crappy, hence no poem till 12:45. Had in-laws over last night for dinner, took son to vertigo66's son's birthday party and caught up on random gossip with her and her family. Finished work, have more to do but not this moment.
I did, however, accidentally write fic. Will post in a minute.