When once the itch of literature comes over a man, nothing can cure it but the scratching of a pen. - Samuel Lover 1797-1868
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A simple way of life I've learned and wise:
I watch the sky, and pray to God, and daily,
To tire distress, with promptitude unfailing
Take long, long walks before the evening dies.
When burdocks stir and sigh in the ravine
And rowans droop and bow their branches meekly,
I make up cheerful verses and serene
Of life, sweet life that passes all too quickly.
At home, the cat licks at my hand and fills
The quiet room with pleased and happy purring.
Up in the tower of the sawing mill
A single bright and steady light is burning.
A stork nests on the roof; its cry is queer
And rends the pregnant hush, deep and bewitching.
If at my door you knock, I will not hear:
The sound will die away and never reach me.