All the Bitter Draught Contd.

II

Think poet, Think;
Think and ask yourself;

Wither art thou bound?

The tryst of opposites?
‘Twixt the eternal labyrinth

Of trial, to grow the pastures of peace?
Think poet, Think;
And ask thyself;

Of what am I a part?
A daunting generation with
A multitude of interests
The most in itself.

Solipsistic folly, paying not a morsel—
Nor sure to receive any—
Of mind, to providence; to posterity,

To the heroes and the dead,
To Retrospect; To Prospect,
To the Infants to be fed.

Think, Don’t Write poet,
Think, And ask yourself
What do I see through the bars?

Think, poet, Think
Is this what you left behind?

END