The Poet's Duty

What a burden to have to write under compulsion.

When at last the poem is writ,
The rhythm and theme a natural fit
And the words together make flow
What is the vision,
How deep is the breath,
Why there is mourning
Of the common fellow—
Men then see what for mankind
Is oft in life, awaits in death.

When at last the poem is writ,
And body removed from tiresome sit—
The pen put down, no longer bellows
The artist vision,
The artist's breath,
The cause of mourning
For the common fellow—
The poet can ponder what after all
Is oft in life, awaits in death.