Though all my thought is for the worthy word,

And all I do I pray will find its poem,

Though my trust is put in verses read aloud,

What good is a man's poem in an evil time?

Hearers and lovers, the body of their joy

Is shrunk; aimless, and ill, and cold.

What use is there for poets during plague?

Let them sing jingles to a careless child.

No. Let them endure. Let me endure,

Remembering how great poetry on the page

Will shine, live, mean forever there.

Let me remember, crowded toward the edge,

That others beside myself wish not to fall.

How is the poem made, and made of what

That means, or lives, or is even beautiful?

Music was poetry once, and now is not.

What else, then? Ecstasy. With the whole heart?

Or this: to the five senses I know four to add,

But speak, like others, only salt or curt.

Yet there is poetry starting in my head.

Then write it. Balance this dark against this light.

Say that the lost innocence is wisdom now.

Say in the poem that only the whole is true:

No health or love in body, book, or state

Without known death and evil and defeat.

Load it with wonder. Fire it with right rage.

Make it, if not for now, then later. Urge;

Exult; delight in the simple sensuous fact;

Believe that this poetry will be heard; but act.