‘All curses on this pen,’
I see you think,
This dark intruder that demands
Its pint of ink;
It leaves harsh trails and seeks to
Imitate the past,
Though never moves,
But leads the eye toward the glass.

For as the trail goes out
From birth to death,
A black unbroken scrawl
To take the breath,
It steals the art
Of conversation’s better side
While you look on
Like some poor, jilted bride,
Who has the well
(If I but had the ink),
And dips me well
When I do cease to think.

David Lewis Paget