The aged poet lies upon his bed |
about to die. His friend begins to grieve.
"Weep not for me, dear friend. I am better dead.
My soul is tired; my heart is spent; my body aches.
Sweet comfort waits, as all this pain, death will relieve."
His friend now sobbing, "Rest assured, whatever it takes,
that I will do to make your poetry widely known.
Your poems shall keep you alive forever!"
"Alas, no seeds of immortality have I sown.
Though I composed poems in the thousands, never
did I achieve my life’s desire.... I have written
of love and hate, abject failures – successes great,
of ladies soft and gentle, men gallant and hard-bitten,
of things that cause the heart to soar, of choices made too late.
My homage paid to both the rose and its thorns so erect...
No matter its subject, I have never fathered a poem that’s perfect!"