I am accused of penchant

To set the world aright,

When a pure poet, don’t we know,

Must inward peregrinate.

 

But when I see a shattered bone,

Or famine in the eye,

I would much less a poet be,

More a remedy.

 

I am askance at any poet

Whose quick of empathy

May contemplate miseries

From a glow of purity.

 

A pure thought disembodied of

The yield of a pure act

Is a vase of filigree fine,

With no flowers in it.

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