If poetry be love, then I be poor:
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for though I have never loved, I have lost,
to a maid most cunning who played the whore;
and spoiled what I long preserved at all cost.
If poetry be mine, then I be rich;
for I, now like a king of immense treasure,
am but a pauper who has found his niche,
a realm and kingdom of rhyme and measure.
If poetry be health, then I be well;
no invalid, but a bard whose high time
nears; whose destiny only God can tell:
till then, I live by faith and by every rhyme.
So, if God and poetry be absolving,
then I, at last, am content and evolving.