Stopping by the typewriter on a sultry evening
(To M. C.)
Teacher this is I think I know.
His room is in the hall below;
Essays I write have made me fear
The grades I get, so very low.
My typewriter must think it queer
To start without an idea near.
I go on as my fingers ache
As on the page the words appear.
It gives its line-end bell a shake
As through the book my fingers rake.
I only hope I'm ab'l to leap
To bed before the dawn shall break.
To doze leads on to something deep,
But essay mine, it will not keep;
I've pages to write before I sleep,
And pages to write before I sleep.