The fountain pen waits in the hand,
small, silent, certain,
a little instrument of ages,
ready to “vindicate” the ways of thought to man.

Its nib, in gold or silver,
in platinum’s polished patience,
touches the page like reason waking,
and asks the writer first to know himself.

For what is ink,
but hope springing eternal
from some dark well within us,
rising before the mind can command it?

Letters flourish, flow, and fall,
a bright chain of meaning,
linking hand to heart,
and heart to the vast design of things.

Here, the proper study of mankind
becomes the moving line,
the sentence shaped by doubt and wonder,
the soul made visible in script.

So yes, the pen feels mightier than the sword;
it does not cut, but questions,
and from its quiet authority
words dance into life upon the page.