My death is life; when born, I am unmade.
Ere life can kindle in me, I must fade;
Thus I alone am fathered by a shade.
I come when good and ready, and I glut
Men’s eyes with myriad forms and phantoms. But
None makes them out unless his eyes are shut.
Illiterate, on letters have I dined
I’ve lived in books, but not improved my mind;
Devoured the Muses, and still am unrefined.