Pray for poets, poor old souls,
Who trip on sticks and fall in holes,
Who task themselves impossibly
To fasten clouds to paper trees,
So grandiose, they die for words
But when they're read, they blush as birds,
Who slave to solve infinity
With letters less than thirty-three
(Inflicted with eternity),
Who turn the keys to ancient doors
On houses never built before,
Who give us bodies for our breath
And find in graves much more than death,
Who bleed for us these baubles small,
That gift us with a sweet recall,
To carry, crumpled, in our pockets,
Bound to us in little lockets,
Love and music, lovely lore.
So pray for poets - we need more.