The poet had even published a book. It hadn't made her rich, but her friend the dragon had told her that gold was better for sleeping on than for spending. Since she quite liked sleeping in her own comfy bed, tented in white mosquito netting, the poet thought she was well enough off without any extra gold lying about.
She was working on her second book now. It promised to be equally unlikely to make her rich, but it did make her happy. She had a desk, paper, pencil, sunshine, moonlight, the open sea, and a mathematician to keep her company. What more could a poet ask for?
Still, one day the poet decided that it might be rather nice to have a child.