Within the iron grip of poetry
I'm bound, and I can nevermore refute
The sweet imprisonment that I foresee,
If I should suddenly be blind and mute;
Unable to put pen to paper, write
Another word, or ever have my voice
Again fall on a human ear, then bright
This slavery would be, and still my choice!
At last I should sit quiet and serene,
Rapt, listening expression on my face;
Nor ever lose a poem, feel chagrin
As now, because another took its place.
    Throughout my life, lone audience I'd be,
    With only death to still the songs in me.