To A Poet Whose Verses I Had Read
By Victoria Mary Sackville-West
I would not venture to dispraise or praise.
Too well I know the indifference which bounds
A poet in the narrow working-grounds
Where he is blind and deaf in all his ways.
He must work out alone his path to glory;
A thousand breaths are fanning him along;
A thousand tears end in one little song,
A thousand conflicts in one little story;
A thousand notes swell to a single chord.
He cannot tell where his direction tends;
He strives unguided towards indefinite ends;
He is an ignorant though absolute lord.