I know no reason, yet opine That half my soul is poetry. The other half, though it is mine, Remains to date a mystery. Each morn I wake to one more day; Each morn I spy new troubles nigh; Problems pester me through noon, And with the dying sun they die. My life I see, as others do, In much the angle they have spied; And yet the poet in me shows All its contents magnified. This is perhaps the reason why The little joys I seldom get Very much do compensate The troubles that often beset. Life is dull, yet I can see Its colours in a brighter way, And with my poet's help I can Smiling close a hectic day.
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