A curious thing that lines are never writ
When the wax-winged glory still holds sway
And only when the sweeping rain fall comes
Will the poet’s hand to pen and paper stray.
Curiouser still, the dishonesty of they
Who, chased by the furies of their own mistakes,
To view the mangled chariot decline, yet
In crafting verse such sweet pains take.
Toilsome though rhyme and metre count may be
While one writes, one does not feel.
We claim as genius what allowance is
To flee the torment of what is real.
Hence – so that from the truth I may turn my face
I once again my pen to lonely paper place.