A Poet Excused

While yet my heart was out on lease,
and every verse was but caprice,
I paid the muses easy rent,
and lived on wine and compliments.

And lavish, sir, I know, you were.
Each smile, would claim its shining share.
Yet I, who hold your heart, ’tis said,
must beg for lines you’ve left unsaid?

You hold my heart; that truth I keep—
too dear for ornament or cheap
display of wit. I fear if writ,
my poorer art would stand unfit.

’Tis bankrupt wit, not love to blame,
good poets thrive on warmer flame;
you praised the cold with artful ease,
yet choke on heat that’s meant to please?

The jealous muses broke their lyres
when you outshone their borrowed fires;
they will not sing where living flame
makes all their practiced wonders tame.

A likely tale—but I believe
you fear what honest lines might leave:
not gilded lust from borrowed art,
but failing numbers spilled from heart.

Suppose I write, and what I add
becomes the inch that makes it bad.
Verse adds a cubit, sometimes more;
truth, stretched, is less than truth before.

Yet still, a modest line would do.
A verse, perhaps—or even two—
(Not all must soar, nor all decieve)—
is more than volumes none receive.

Then here’s my stanza, short and sound:
I praised the many;loved them none;
I love but you—and therefore choose
to speak, not polish, what is done.

Keep then your speech, and keep it warm;
Let others glitter, if they must—
I’d rather have a living heart
than twenty poems turned to dust.