A thought.it reads:
You do not have the soul of a poet
The poets tell me, how should they know
Does the wind whisper when it may blow
In and out of the soul that they may know it?
Thousands march on, great and small and yet
Few rise, few are made to rise -- but by who
There was a time when there were some who knew
Some whom wisdom and virtue once met;
It is this, once formed the craftsman begins --
What will he make, will it be great or poor?
Will it make rich or will most try to ignore
He who has by nature revealed their sins?
As all men I am three, one sleeps, one wakes
And one dreams, but I found these not to be
Simply places I go, but three who are me
Whichever road my winding way takes;
I find a contradiction their little rule makes
For while they seek greater consciousness
For one such as I, that is a foolish mess
I, one who only dreams that he wakes.