To Poets

We are the homeless, even as you,
Who hope and never can begin.
Our hearts are wounded through and through
Like yours, but our hearts bleed within.
We too make music, but our tones
’Scape not the barrier of our bones.

We have no comeliness like you.
We toil, unlovely, and we spin.
We start, return: we wind, undo:
We hope, we err, we strive, we sin,
We love: your love’s not greater, but
The lips of our love’s might stay shut.

We have the evil spirits too
That shake our soul with battle-din.
But we have an eviller spirit than you
We have a dumb spirit within:
The exceeding bitter agony
But not the exceeding bitter cry.