Sweet Will, Will not of Wisp, Iron Will-
Wouldst shake thy magic spear my way?
Impale me deeply with thy words.
Shaft me with thy barbs,
returning needle for needle in
sewing remarks.
Hemming up the cloth of mirth,
Disrobing, complexing, re-lining
the brighter fabric of the play.

Many a punny fellow
pale of face and lean of shank
hath wheezed out airs less to my liking.
His melodies are luted.
His notes most harped upon-
Sung to all the world in a tenor of delight.

Whilst thou, Sweet Will, Will of Iron,
Canst not be turned through careless fingering of phrase.
Will me thy gift. Grant me thy Will. Thy Will be done.
Sweet Will, thy will be done, if not done away.

It cannot be but I am a-tremble with words.
Thus I depart, punting through the shoals
of thought in shaky craft
( not crafty)
into new WILLderness.