Is it enough to turn a clever word or two? On one of those late and lonely nights of writing, What would you do if your muse, Instead of giving a quick whisper Or a kiss of inspired genius, Bit? And what if her teeth Were sharp as your freshly whetted mind And she expected retribution Most exacting? How much could you give? Your one life would surely ebb Before the flow outgoing ceased. Would you make that sanguine sacrifice? Could you take solace in choosing to lose The frame you'd been born to, Referencing the truth, the favor, the trade For immortality graven in the heart? Would you part with your dearest To clear out the coils, the oils From this mortal toil? To never require winding, To be always finding the Divine In easy sight? My eyes! My eyes! This thought is too bright.