Inspiration (Lovecraft)

One fragrant morn, when Spring was young, I roam’d the glen in eager quest, Hoping with careful eye among The grass to find the violet’s nest; But not a leaf or bud seem’d sprung Up from the couch of wintry rest; And yet, when all my greedy search was o’er, By chance I spy’d the flow’r I miss’d before!

One night, within my chamber pent, I strove my fancies to enchain In breathing numbers, and to vent Some portion of my bliss and pain; But strife of soul my musings rent— The sluggish pencil mov’d in vain; Yet out upon the mead the starlight brought The long-wish’d song, unbidden and unsought!