Tangent

And for the poet with too blunt a word
To speak to things in the immortal way,
Who cannot feel the touch enough to say,
Without contrivance, how his heart is stirred;

This very poet, whose words are uttered
As if not uttered, who will always stay
Another day behind the present day,
Among the voices never to be heard;

Where does he find the courage to not pretend
He will survive upon the lips of men,
Or that the poems which flow out of his pen
Could join those of no error and no end?

When all a poet knows is compromise,
He smiles; a stillborn poem never dies.