She strikes the unformed syllables,
And hammers them in place...
And just as molten metal does,
They throw heat to her face.

On the anvil of experience,
She hammers through the night,
From her smithy's fires burning,
She produces sheer delight!

To the wordsmith, I'm beholden,
For her work doth make me dream...
Her lustrous works embolden me,
To be more than I seem.