My mind is the mind of poets
They comprehend my ill
Yet—ah—my faltering artistry
Falls far behind them still
There burned a familiar pathos
There pierced a familiar thorn
There thrilled a familiar fancy
In those who penned before
Still beckoning from their pages
So eloquent the lines
Whose tones like silk and honey
My leaden soul entwines
Insatiable, stirred to the liver
The hunger of hands to be fed
By ink in an endless river
Of pity and love and dread
Whoever might hope to come equal
(For hope is a cunning friend)
May wander a poets’ pathway
And come to a poets’ end