“What words shall come to me today”

What words shall come to me today?  
Shall morning slip them, soft and bright,  
Through open window, swept by May,  
And gild my desk with liquid light?

Will memory’s echo bring them near—  
Old, gentle verses, tried and true,  
Or will invention’s voice appear  
With syllables strange and wondrous new?

Perhaps a robin, bold in song,  
Will gift me lines to toss and spin;  
Or whispered breezes, all along  
The garden’s edge, will drift them in.

Let patient silence guide my pen—  
Some days are made for seeds, not flowers;  
Yet, if I wait, and breathe, and then  
Attend the hush of quiet hours,

I’ll find the words that long to play  
Between the morning and the night—  
They’ll come, in their unhurried way,  
And turn my hope to poems of light.

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