O, what a drought is this that grips my hand!
My quill, once nimble, lieth still and dry,
The fountain of my fancy stopped at source,
And every page a desert in itself.
Speak, spirit — or if thou wilt not speak, then weep,
That I might catch thy tears upon this leaf
And call them ink, and call myself restored.
And then call my dear, elderly Aunt Hilda,
who I fear has taken another tumble.
This time, I resolve to discover the name
of this sotted aunt-tumbling scoundrel.
