TO A POET

I WOULD not venture to dispraise or praise.

Too well I know the indifference which bounds

A poet in the narrow working-grounds

Where he is blind and deaf in all his ways.

He must work out alone his path to glory;

A thousand breaths are fanning him along;

A thousand tears end in one little song,

A thousand conflicts in one little story;

A thousand notes swell to a single chord.

He cannot tell where his direction tends;

He strives unguided towards indefinite ends;

He is an ignorant though absolute lord.