By inconclusive dogma of retreat
have I abandoned all my poems of thought,
left them to sit and gather dust in heaps,
crumbling away in my mind, all but lost.
By waywardness and folly have I slain
the heart inside me, begging to be strong,
and slunk back into shadows, wholly vain,
to weep over my apathy in Song.
What irony can greater be than this?
that I should seek out of myself what God
hath granted from beginning as within
the temple of the human, bound and strong.