Version 1: Against my dearest wishes here I sit, A man of four and twenty timid years -- Without a candle held to forward peers Behind my pen, a wreck of language writ. I strain to, so I say, express my wit, But only gain, in time, expose my fears -- Will they receive my words with cheers or jeers? As if critique were good reason to quit. Despite the days I've lost to crippling doubt In spite of nights spent in the throes hell In vain passed not a second oh so long Because along with, hand in hand, went a sound As mercy, lithe and nimble, rang her bell Forgiving me, be I in right or wrong. Version 2: Against my dearest wishes here I sit, A man of four and twenty timid years -- Without a candle held to forward peers Behind my pen, a wreck of language writ. I strain to, so I say, express my wit, But only gain, in time, expose my fears -- Will they receive my words with cheers or jeers? As if critique were good reason to quit. "Success enough," might call a finch in flight, "This life alive!" would yell an orchid grown, My ordinary verse may well strike hearts One day, though I prefer this humble height -- In scribbling soft for me and me alone I too, so proudly, serve and please the arts. ----- Title: Orig: 2023