«Say, poet, what use have you made of your time?
Have you amazed people with rhythm and rhyme?

Have you changed the world? Do men honour your name?
Have you touched their hearts? Have you kindled a flame?

Have you reached such heights that each phrase, every word
Must seem to your listeners the finest they've heard?

Or maybe it's craft that is guiding your quill
To trace clever verses and demonstrate skill?»

«If so, then a writer I never shall be,
The way of a poet was not meant for me!»

«If you're not a hack, but a poet by right,
Say, where is your soul? Does it soar in free flight?

Has your spirit been tempered by flames that inspire?
Have you been demented by love's cruel fire?''

«Without love, with no warmth there can never be art.
When loveless the winter means death to my heart.»

1967