Oh, that I had words like those upon my shelf;
that I could breathe life, Pygmalion-like, into my thoughts;
that some girl reading in the dead of night might inhale my lines,
might find within them kindling for a fire in her soul.
It seems a kind of magic to me, I who struggle,
I who never see my words take flight.
Shall I try? Shall I strive, then, sowing seeds of fruitless trees?
Better, still, than throwing down my pen;
better that I throw aside my pride
and once more set out, searching always,
seeking hills to climb, and never rest -
never say my journey’s done.