Seated one day at a table, I was having forty fits, As my fingers hovered nervously Over those jig-sawed bits. I know not what I was hunting To finish a soldier's face; But I struck one queer-shaped fragment That fitted that queer-shaped space. It linked all those silly features Into one solid man; And as I had finished his shoulder, I began to see the plan. It helped with the background also, A sort of guide it made; But I moved some other pieces, And somehow it got mislaid! I sought, but I sought it vainly, That one small piece so queer, That out of a hundred others Fitted that soldier's ear. I couldn't go on without it, I fretted and fumed and fussed; Then -- somebody joggled my elbow! And I gave up in disgust. It may be that some time or other I will try that thing again; But not till I'm in an asylum, -- And I doubt if I do it then! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FUZZY-WUZZY' (SOUDAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE) by RUDYARD KIPLING SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: LUCINDA MATLOCK by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE EAGLE OF THE BLUE by HERMAN MELVILLE TO SCIENCE; SONNET by EDGAR ALLAN POE THE FIRST BLUEBIRD by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY CENTENNIAL HYMN by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER ODES: BOOK 2: ODE 15. ON DOMESTIC MANNERS (UNFINISHED) by MARK AKENSIDE |