If I lived a thousand years, if I wrote
the countless poems that an enduring gift
availed from endless potency, the rift
between us would remain; as from the throat
of every nightingale, each witnessed note
that's woven into meaning gets short shrift
in forest wild: an earnest Keats may lift
in bankruptcy of spirit in a vote
of confidence; so, I could never reach
you, try as might, and in the trying sink
to where the poets sink, apart and lost;
you are, my friend, alive: no one can teach
you joy and liberty, nor what to think,
but One: burn poetry! - Count not the cost.
