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.