A fragment.it reads:
Ephrem Gray, he did one day
Sit down to write a sonnet
But his pen would not obey
From when he set upon it
To scribble out, without a doubt
The thing which he had dreamed
In verse, no worse, all about
The true picture that it seemed.
By try as he might, from morn to night
Things pushed his pen away
Chores and more, those duties light
Quietly his quest belay'd.
Till that vision, its lucent frission
Had faded faster than the fog
Of dawn, and on, and so his mission
Itself was sunk in sallow smog.
And he forgot, all but 'bon mot'
Of what had moved his mind of late
In daze, the phrase just marked the spot
It was, "I, grown, await."