Too many poets pack a line with thought But melody refuses to take wing. It’s not that meaning has been dearly bought: It has been stifled, by a hankering For portent, as if music meant too much. Sidney called this a want of inward touch.
True poets should walk singing as they weep, As Arnaut Daniel once epitomised; But nothing written will be worth its keep Composed by one who has not realised This to be true, and tested his own song On others, seeing if they listen long
Or turn away. Verse is a public act To that extent at least. As cruel as love, The wished-for gift declines to be a fact Except for the elect. The gods above Loll on their clouds and lazily look down To choose who gets the laurels of renown
Even if deaf. For them, it’s just a game, But not for us, and though there might well be Too many poets, we all nurse the same Faith in the virtue of our mystery. Courage, my friend: the world will not forget What you have written. Or at least not yet.
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