by Benedict Bergeron ’29 on January 29, 2026
Portfolio - Poetry
I sit before my oaken table
As oft as I am able
With pen in hand and paper
My words, never stringing.
I try to be a shaper,
A song-maker, singing,
But inspiration lacks;
My purpose comes to naught.
I turn to trace my tracks,
But I have none begot.
Before my oaken table, I sit,
Not writing once, not one bit.
To me, this is a dreadful sight;
This is our curse: The Poet’s Plight.