It was never meant for any who read, not write,

To hear it aloud, crazy and honest.

Why, why do you trouble yourself that way? they say.

Or in golden language crying from famous books,

Or spoken simple and cold

In the old, the common, the family light

To friends with their wary wiry looks.

O spare the silent the sound of words.

Keep books about poetry, keep our delight

In verbs, nouns, adjectives out of their sight.

The poet growing in love alive alone,

And wild with words,

Knows the truth suddenly always known.

His life means writing the poems.

This height in the bright room late, this rage.

Rhyme ready, put quick on the page,

Narrow and clean, music and meaning one,

And the thing done.

As for who cares how or with what

They were written well, and when, and why-

Poets care, as all men care who wish not yet to die.

Praise poetry to them.