Were he and the singing two songs, or one?

Did the Word speak, or this poet speak it?

Could color have taken him, or did he take it?

Has he done this only because it must be done?

Has he waited? We know how long a man waits

In his solitude learning enough patience

To stand outside the one door in silence.

And we have seen those who crowd the gates.

Doubt is a way of resting. Does he know this?

Has he lived his doubts, alive in his shadow,

Saying of his dark, C'est de la terre en repos?

If he is to live longer, he must know this.

How then did he return from his loneliness

Toward you and me, and, having found one only

Love, remember being once unloved and lonely?

Must he stay among us now? Why does he say yes?

Is he prepared hourly against all unexpected

Danger, from dragons or from princesses?

Courage is not shoulder more, or shoulder less.

It is keeping the heart ready, and the head,

For what never should have happened so.

Outrageous. Inexplicable. Did he fight it?

The decision turns on how he fought it.

There is one further thing that we must know:

He is to ask the poet he hopes to be,

And the poet he is this hour today, tonight,

Must answer once forever: Would he

Die if it were forbidden him to write?