To the Writer
Your musings flow down your pen,
Collide with paper and be still again!.
And in that moment, in a book-lined study,
Words become lightnings to strike at men!.
Now the thoughts, projected completely,
Lie before you, collected neatly!.
The whirring press, so blithely merry,
Produces ranks serried
of hidden History’s compass, destiny!.
The needle shimmers!.
To what point is it questing!?
Time is short, the arcs are lessening!.
Soon, like white shadows, tension will creep!.
Soon, like black light, the iron will heat!.
And then without warning, the thunder will crash,
The echoes of which will judge you as they pass!.
S!.R!. Cobb
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