I write and throw my writings carelessly

About the room. They lie upon the floor

In scattered piles, on the disordered desk

Will scatter them about. Half-finished poems

I toss away e'er yet the thoughts set down.

Small bits of verse that glow like some small spot

Of color in an artist's rough-drawn sketch,

All hastily set down and cast aside,

Are sometimes gathered up and out away,

And then sometimes I find some perfect poems

That make worthwhile the labor of the day,

And read them in a happy glow to think

That my pen set them down in gleaming ink.