The Poet's Inspiration

A sliver of laughter in the mind—that's all philosophy is.
And as for capital: a firm voice lodged at the throat's root,
a forehead high and broad, serene and yielding.
What the poet feels
is enthusiasm, filled equally with faith and sorrow.

Perhaps some unchanging principles endure to the end,
and with them the poet's melodies and griefs—
all flowing from some terrible, distant, raging waterfall;
and in the poet's sensitive heart
certain thorned flowers keep searching, lifelong.

In the midst of all his childhood dreams
a garden showed him the way... toward his own heart,
a garden tended by some woman
in whose eyes winter ended and spring descended.
And descends still; will descend tomorrow too.

O friend, you may not love the poet at all,
but your beloved does!
She loves him, so you do not,
or you do not, so she does—
or some other matter entirely. Without digging into all that, let me just say this:
your beloved's love is worth more than your hatred, know this!