I cast my words into the sea.
You drop anchor,
retrieve them with your net,
And whisper, "*******,
You are not dead."
Your faith in me is a buoy
In the ocean of my disbelief.
Still, I flail against the waves
Of disconcerted effort.
"My talent has drowned," I cry.
Yet you pull it from the depths,
Pump your own warm current
Into these collapsed lungs.
I gasp, and spew salt water verses
From my sea foam mouth.
Doubt not, O poet, but persist. Say, 'It is in me, and shall out.' Stand there, baulked and dumb, stuttering and stammering, hissed and hooted, stand and strive, until, at last, rage draw out of thee that dream-power which every night shows thee is thine own; a power transcending all limit and privacy, and by virtue of which a man is the conductor of the whole river of electricity.
~ Emerson