Volume 10 — THE LOST WORD

Seated one day at the typewriter, I was weary of a's and e's, And my fingers wandered wildly, Over the consonant keys. I know not what I was writing, With that thing so like a pen; But I struck one word astounding— Unknown to the speech of men. It flooded the sense of my verses, Like the break of a tinker's dam, And I felt as one feels when the printer Of your "infinite calm" makes clam. It mixed up s's and x's Like an alphabet coming to strife. It seemed the discordant echo Of a row between husband and wife. It brought a perplexed meaning Into my perfect piece, And set the machinery creaking As though it were scant of grease. I have tried, but I try it vainly, The one last word to divine Which came from the keys of my typewriter And so would pass as mine. It may be some other typewriter Will produce that word again, It may be, but only for others— I shall write henceforth with a pen.