All the way from America

I meant to mean a meaning A sad secluded seeming Of a tragic tale's teeming With written wearied words of woe

I meant to meekly mend The wearied words, their will to wend From paper's battles, left to fend For forms forgotten by our foe

But I kept those that meant the most Formed a reserve, a mighty host That none deserve, that none may boast That none may say they'd brought me low

I didn't mean my meanness But I couldn't gauge your keenness For a spendthrift's spending seamless From a chequebook brought for show

If all those gifts could only mean No empty gaudy golden gleam But grace's shoots of gladdest green Perhaps I'd give them, even so

Nothing given, meaning naught Even if my meaning's fraught The weary words, their fight they've fought How heavy lands the final blow?

The golden mean, approaching silence An end to all this wordy violence Bound behind the page's high fence A conceit that none may overthrow

Please don't be mean to me, I pray thee The words, as usual, have all failed me But maybe one day, we'll be made free Our meanings plain for each to know