So now the poet was expecting a child. It was arriving very soon, in fact, which left her with a horrible difficulty. She wanted to write a lullaby for the child, to soothe it into sleep when it was getting too noisy. She'd been planning to write one for months, but so far, all she'd managed was the title. "The Poet's Lullaby." The title had a nice ring to it, but singing that one line over and over was probably going to make the child scream, not sleep. And try as she might, she could not get any further with it.
She wrote short lines, and long lines, and middling lines. She wrote page after page after page after page, and it was a good thing she had a magic bag of dragon-scale paper, or she would have likely run right out. The poet stayed up writing late into the night, until her candle had burned completely down, and she was scribbling and scratching out her words by moonlight (which hurt her eyes).
The poet wanted her child's lullaby to be perfect, but no matter how hard she worked, nothing she wrote came close.