Thirteen days and thirteen ways
To die, my friend, you’ll find
Dark verse of note and word well-wrote
And joys of every kind.
Take rest, ye merry poet folkBefore ye’d toss the dice.
Search quiet place and ties that bind
The call and sacrifice.
Keep by thine side the poet’s tools,Lead or that machine
That clicks and rolls the tiny ball,
Leaves ink with luster’s sheen.
And from thy dream and deep reposeThy pen may drop a line
From that long year that bitter tear
Was thy only prize.
Then blow thy horn and celebrate!Write! For comes the day
Thy paper floats like leaf from wood
And burns to ashen gray.
I beg ye merry architects,Press on and then return
With rose and reason to remember
Each love of which ye’d yearn.