Shall I make verse to the virtue of ink?

Dark as ebony, graceful as the swan,

Sweeter in the quill than honey – the drink

And wine of poets' thoughts – our song.

What of a rhyme to the courageous quill?

Sharp as the sword, more biting than ice.

Its power to bring to life and kill,

Compares to none – its virtue, its vice.

Forget not the blank and humble page!

Without which this verse could not be writ.

It preserveth mans' words age by gone age.

Oh what – dear poet – would we do without it?

Betwixt these three a best shall I ne'er choose -

The ink, the quill, the page – all are my Muse.