You asked if I were writing poems still,

And I said, "Not a line in months. I can't."

Something in you cried at that

Over a wall of politeness new to us,

Why - why -?" you said,

And I shrugged off your honest cry,

But blessed you secretly, and I was rude.

I might have said, "When life is drugged

Sweetly and fully, day and night,

And answers found, and haste

Tempered to soberness; when flame burns evenly

And does not leap; when loneliness no longer

Reaches in the dark; when emptiness is filled,

And hunger fed, and love attained -

What is there left - ?" and your bewilderment

Would only grow if I should add,

Better to never quite win love, and starve;

To have the golden, lonely hours; to seek,

Torn with a question, stabbed by beauty,

Driven along the single path,

Straining to shout a secret that I know;

Better to be a little sad, and therefore happy, And to write - "