Without the tears he wept for Maude,
his life and work would be a fraud,
but would not he trade all he'd done
just for one night of carnal fun?
Now, in his grave, does he not moan
just for the nights he spent alone?
And, with the stars, does he not cry
just for the nights when he did sigh?
Yet, mournful words and weeping rhymes
could not be made in better times!
His tearful odes and wailing verse
could not be sung without his curse!
And this despair the poet knows:
his life and work inspired by foes
not killed by sword, nor gun, nor hand,
but soothed within a sinking sand.