Whatever words may come, will come, and stay--
I cannot amputate from me my very limbs
so terribly or gangrenous might they
display themselves to Reason's haughty hymns.
My lines may stretch and grow so like a skin
to let my soul come forth on inky song--
there are no words abandoned, words that sin
so thoroughly as to be left alone.
If I had never writ not made a sound
I would accept my own mind's mortal coil:
But since I sing with birds from holy ground
I cannot die still having burnt my toil.
No absolute shall from from my old pen. But note:
I am content. I thought. I sang. I wrote.
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