Fires that go out, and rooted plants that die,

Water by leaking lost, and clothes that fade,

All things we need, use, love, own, swear by, --

These fail us only, only are unmade,

Being removed from hearth, or earth, or brook.

All have one place where each is at its best,

Where coals burn red, clothes stay upon the hook,

The streams run full, plants flower, all are blest.

Then let the poet call one place his own,

Lock himself in, be lonely, or alone,

Do nothing there, or break old time apart

To rebuild one moment of it strange and new,

Forever new, if he has it in his heart,

And a poet has that in his heart to do.