 the poet, his presence
ursine and kind, shifting his weight in a chair too small
for him,
quietly says, and shyly: "The Poet
never must lose despair."
Then our eyes indeed
meet and hold.
All of us know, smiling
in common knowledge —
even the palest spirit among us, burdened
as he is with weight of abstractions —
all of us know he means
we mustn't, any of us, lose touch with the source,
pretend it's not there, cover over
the mineshaft of passion...
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