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