I heed not that my earthly lot
  Hath—little of Earth in it—
That years of love have been forgot
  In the hatred of a minute:—
I mourn not that the desolate
  Are happier, sweet, than I,
But that you sorrow for my fate
  Who am a passer-by.

Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
  Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet’s heart,
  Vulture, whose wings are dull realities
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
  Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
  Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing!
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
  And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
  Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

When people ask me
Why poetry
Why not pick a paying profession

Take hold this truth
That I'm laying on you
In which there is a valuable lesson

If you do what you like
You're going to find
Life holds treasure in wonder

Instead of the dough
Taking you out in its tow
And then pulling you under

When you're doing things
Think more the gifts they bring
And not money to be made

When people ask me
Why poetry
Do I really need to say