Whan upon an aprile day,
I sat and stood, and sat some more
Pondering words, and words, and words galore.
When upon my mind those words did rise
To say to me: you have no right
you have no time.
For we have risen
beyond thee and thy comprehension
In this dire moment, when hope was forlorn, a figure rose
From pages past.
This figure had no armor, shield or sword,
but a pen he did raise.
And with that pen he defined a way.
And hope did find, with its evervescent rays,
My pondering upon that fateful day.
Good sir said I.
Dost thou have a name.
“Aye” he replied.
Samuel Johnson is mine name.
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