Birth of the Poet

What live there beyond my sight?

Perhaps a world both good and bright,

but all I know and all I see,

is a world that hath forsaken me.

For what is there to trust beyond what I see?

Perhaps a world both good and full of glee,

except all I view with my cataract,

Is that which I’m meant to counteract.

And what do a man who lost his way?

He brings forth his cache

of feelings kept in for many a day,

and thus is born what poets say.