Have crumbs upon the steps, are licked by dogs,
Or else are starved. And why it is that I
Must go about, a beggar, with my songs
Exchanging them for bread. And then it is
When this poor brain like the creative stuff,
The central purpose, whirls, as I have written,
And will not stop—drink! for oblivion,
For rest, to get away from self, back faster
From the pursuing Nothing.
Yet, my love,