My muse has gone a’wondering,
For away from my head,
Its been so long I wonder,
If he has fallen in the gutter dead.
My hand has ceased its scribbling,
Before it has begun,
And the pages stays blank before me,
Like a shadow in the sun.
But maybe it is not all gone,
Maybe it is only sleeping,
For the occasional twitch in my dreams,
With the sheep over the fence leaping.
I am now only half of the old me,
Trying to recreate that symphony,
With scattered notes all over,
Trying to grasp the puzzled litany.
There will be a time when it returns,
And guides my gentle quill,
Feed it all thats with me,
Until its had its fill.