Have you noticed that a poet takes up pen
Most often when it seems his heart is breaking?
Anguished lines from poor, tormented men
Poured forth in a midnight’s fevered making
On tear-stained sheets, unedited, and then
Read to each friend in voices rough and shaking.
“Woe and despair!” they cry, then write again
‘Til you long to shake them, force their waking
From such fevered dreams. I will not use you so;
He loves me still! My house is filled with mirth
And gaiety; and even if I know
That he grows restless (soon I think he’ll go),
The world is rich in men of higher worth.
I shall move on, and sing no songs of woe.
September 9, 1996