Why blame the Poet for the mess he writes;
All flowers bloom from stage of bud only;
Why blame the priest for poor funeral rites?
That is the way we do pray, sing, may be;
No one is perfect in his work at first;
Hard-work and time and luck, his mettle tells;
None have always the same hunger and thirst;
Nothing on earth quite uniformly sells.
By training much, one can become perfect;
Not all are geniuses, born or made;
The most perfect at times has some defect;
We don’t know if our glory shall fade.
But Poets write just for the sake of it;
And very soon, they write out of habit.
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