When I Consider My Poet's Life Is Spent
When I consider my poet's life is spent
Ere half in dark and half in day,
And that my talent- if there is any I say,
Wasted in ill pursuits, my Muse has lent
Fuel to my Critics, so I resent
My true faith, and continue to chide.
"Does Love expect hard-labor, joy denied?"
In pain I ask; but Patience and need
Makes poetry sweetly reply, "Poets do not heed
Another's work or Society's creed; who best
Bear fickle fate, they serve Poesy best. Your state
Is to love what other's may hate,
To move King and peasant alike,
To accept wild strokes with ease and delight,
For to stoke the engine of Poesy
Is to make all things rosy:
To speak a universal tongue called LOVE
Is to soar with angels high, above.
So when one hand blesses the other
We all, feel the gain and fish for Another!
So that when one poet falls
Then so falls the sun when darkness calls!
So let us bow and praise and lift spirits
From morn to morn let us shed light:
They also serve who only sit and write."