O Lamy, my Lamy!

– Remember: No good comes of Walt Whitman –

O Lamy! my Lamy! my lovely pen is gone;
The pen has written every word, the letters sought not done;
The book is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While reading eyes the metric verse, the poem grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the dripping drops of ink,
Where in the world my Lamy lies,
Gone in but a blink.

O Lamy! my Lamy! rise up and find your Bell;
Rise up—for you the writ is wrote—for you the music swells;
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shelves a-crowding;
For you I call, the searching jill, my saddened face is turning;
Here Lamy! dear pen!
These words beneath your nib;
Were like some dream that on the page,
And witty little quips.

My Lamy does not answer, it is gone and lost;
My Lamy does not feel my hands, it has not ink nor verse;
The pen is neither safe nor sound, its writing done and terse;
With mournful words, the bookish nerd, comes in with object gone;
Exult, O ballpoints; write, O Bics!
But I, with mournful tears,
Write the words my Lamy wrote,
in pencil, without smears.