There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein. - Red Smith
* * *
The immortelle is pink, it's pink and dry.
The oak leaves are still thin and bare of colour.
The marble clouds are roughly sculptured. Summer
Lies far ahead, but spring paints blue the sky.
The rays of dawn till midningt radiant stay.
The joys of my seclusion are unending!
Of all that is most wonderful, most tender
The loud-voiced birds discourse with me today.
I'm happy. But the sloping road that straight
Across the forest runs to me is dearer,
And, too, the crooked bridge... What bliss that nearer
The glad day draws and I've not long to wait!