There are two poems I've yet to write br Two thoughts I've yet to capture br Two leafs of paper I've yet to use, br to write on, to speak to, to have yield br br The thoughts yield to my mind; br my hand to the thoughts, pen to hand; br The pen ever so gracefully glides, br the words so gently move, ne'er collide br br But there are two poems I've yet to write br Wherefore I cannot capture them, I do not know br I try and try, yet whither they go, br they escape the light br br If once perhaps I caught them, br and put them into words, br I should pet them calmly br let them know I dare not lose them br (For they go where they might) br br and if my mind had sent them to my hand br my hand would ever yield, br for my hand is the hand of a willful doer br ever taking field br br and if my hand could mold the pen br and the pen mold the words, br I should hope that my mind had not forgot br to put them into verse! br br However my mind had forgotten br to mold them into verse, br to sing them carefully to my heart br so as to better coerce the words br br I would have rather have blurted br all the words out br than to have ever thought to rehearse br which might not have been worse br br After all of this, hoping to recoup, br I've still two poems to write, br to handle my pen, to yield to my heart.