Words, words, words on my courtyard fall,
Cached and routined. I broom them all,
Softly and quickly into a pile they gather.
My bland pen lights them, sparks them rather,
Sets my blind pages very much on fire.
As the smokeflakes ascend, fly far higher,
I see, with incense their holy airs compete
And win many a wondrous blazes they meet.
I wave their fragrance over my bottled ink,
Spread my wordlings with a cautioned wink,
An offering laid thus before thee,
Oh beholder, descend thyself, come bless me!
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