To A Poet Whose Verses I Had Read

    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.