Not from the brain within the brain.
But all the dull, chaff-nourished tribe
Must have its favorite food of bran,
And he who writes must let the scribe
Murder the poet in the man.
Oft must he stem the tides that roll
From thought’s interior deep, and, dead
To their far voices, sell his soul—
No, not for gold, for bread.
And he must leave the heights that shine