ALWAYS THE SONNETTEER
Though I were old and mad and poor and dumb,
And your name were a blasphemy to say
For which men came and beat me, every day,
With seven-foot bull-hide whips—yet should they come,
Red smiles upon them, since I had no tongue,
And gasp with horror ... at black ant platoons
Wheeling in ordered state to form the runes,
The hero-word I knew when I was young!
With this poor body, worn to rags and skin
By the chained stalk of the uneasy mind,
I’d take the blows and watch the fun begin;
Groping among the stars, meantime, to find
The Dipper made a letter—seen by God—
And Mars, perhaps, might serve as period.