Imaginary People: Poet

You have escaped the comedy Of swift, pretentious praise and blame, And smashed a tavern where they sell The harlots' wine that men call fame. Heralds of reckless solitude Have offered you another voice, But men are still a tempting jest. You roam and cannot make a choice. When you have played distractedly With a humility, you tire And change the pastime to a pride. These are but moods of one desire. You throw an imitating gleam Upon the dwarfs that line your road, Then with a worn hostility You tramp along beneath your load.