I was taken, snatched in that instant of writing
I was becalmed by the patch of light on my arm
I thought I had forsaken peace and truth and love
That to be mistaken was sure sign of the silken glove
I chose to wait, to compose, or become composed
I rose to find the style of argument I once proposed
I rested, as if I had a case to be relieved of; unloaded
I am less of those idiosyncrasies that killed my charm
