If these clumsy, fettered, rhymes
Are judged a catalogue of crimes,
Then my guilt is here to see;
And I have no defence, except to say,
That the victim is but....poetry.
For I am no thief, these words are mine,
The contents of this, my cup.
From which I swore to you alone,
None but you would ever sup.
And how can a man be thought to steal,
What is his own, to do with as he pleases?
What matter that he offends the 'finer tastes'
If his lines his heartache eases?
To squander, and waste, to throw away
In haste, this is what Love demands.
To rifle the chest, and plunder,
These are her cruel commands.
And when Love bids it, we all obey;
Show me the man who would refuse.
We follow the flag, and the beating drum,
Eyes on Heaven and Glory, but we lose
More often than we win, and so seek
Solace for that supposed wrong;
What harm then, if, from the sadness
Of defeat, we weave the victory of a song?
