That I may never know the poet's curse:

Weak words that only fill the line,

The meaning altered for the meter's heat -

That from my pen come only lines

That have the honest lyric heat -

Then men may say, "He wrote good verse,

Good ringing, swinging, hearty verse,

Sincerely built, and joined with polished care

In fine, strong, English rooted words,

And rugged Anglo Saxon sounds -

These three wishes make my prayer.