As I am writing in my chair

A quiet thought arrives:

Why do I write? How do I dare

To presume to change lives?

Why should I for a moment think

That which I’ve said’s profound?

That all will still my poems drink

When I am in the ground?

This tort’rous thought traps me in webs

Of which I can’t escape

While fleeting inspiration ebbs;

In doubt I myself drape.