For shall the poet starve for words

Whilst shivering in the rain?

And will he drown of silence

By the wetting of this brain?

Or could he turn to pen and air

To make his heart beat fast?

And feed himself on visions

So his thirst is quenched at last

And so I’ll not defend my words

As poets sometimes do.

The words of senses sown,

To the senses are due

 

Walsall (12.VII.75)