Always have I heard of tragedies
Which hound and nip at a man
Till he becomes but a ghost
Of self loathing and spite
That naught he does may please
And if very hard indeed he ran
In the labyrinth that he becomes lost
There still exists for him no respite
Always have I heard of failures
Which torture the soul of a man
Turning him into a resentful husk
As surely as if he is a leper
That they become wounds to endure
Till all lingering hopes are wan
And he a shamefaced wight of dusk
Walking lone under the Dippers.
Always have I heard of all these
And to you, poem, I infuse them
For I am now become that man
Pockmarked with his many failings
Levy me with your heavy fees
That I may be rid of this emblem
And say not that my fate I bemoan
Though I am become denizen of the evening.