A street photographer in laic life,

now poet, king, Parnassian autocrat

(since quite a time kept under lock and key),

thus did he speak:

I did not wish to stoop

to Fame: it rushed up of its own accord.

I’ve now forgotten where my Muse was schooled.

Straight, lonesome was her path. I never knew

how to stock friends for use, nor to pull thorns

from lion paws. It suddenly began

to snow; surprising! It was snowing roses.

Enchanting destiny! How much I prize

an Enemy’s wan little smile! I like

to incommode the Failure, multiply

his painful dreams about me, and examine

the skeleton of Envy, shadowgraphed

and showing through, if held up to the light.

When I with balladry blandish the moon

the trees beyond the gate grow agitated

as they endeavor out of turn to get

into my verse. I’m privileged to rule

the entire world (which disobeys my Neighbor),

and happiness so airily dilates,

my head is filled with such an incandescence,

and words of such impeccable perfection

come to meet Thought and wing away with her

that I dare not write down a single word.

Yet sometimes—Oh to be another! Quick!

Another! Tailor, carpenter—Or, say,

itinerant photographer: to live

as in an old tale, work the villas, take

pictures of dappled children in a hammock,

and of their dog and shadows on the sand.