I say it's a meagre , thin love this , unwholesome.
What else could a good Romantic poet say
who'd fling his heart a wounded bird to make it fly
rather than let it , crippled , merely flutter
away?

No courage here; not even the plain straightforward statement.
I know all the facts of it - but then who else would care ?
I'd tell you , and tell you gladly, but not even you,
the all-too-unwitting object , would know of any way
to share.

I'd like to take all the words I know and speed
them far to the curving rim of clear dark space
and blazon them there in one gigantic creed
but all the resultant consequence I could not
face.

To hell with it then for lacking the simple courage
to tell of the dreams I have dreamed , I'll cut them dead
and trample them deep in every day's pollution.
This I have thought and thought and thought of as the only
solution.

A lover may fling his heart at a golden bird
but what would a good romantic critic say
if then he let it flutter with crippled wings
away......