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To Metered Rhyme

Sometimes, when the well is dry,
My pen can't write the words;
Sometimes in a cloudless sky
Thoughts fly off like birds;
Sometimes there simply is no rhyme
And Muse can't buy a verse;
Sometimes thought is not sublime,
Often, much, much worse.

And sometimes then I think on thee
And pen such lyric praise
That all the world might read and see
Thy works in every phrase!
Then, though the well like bone may be,
Or thoughts like fleeing birds,
Thou art more than mere birds to me,
Thine essence, more than words.