Am I not a poet?
Yet poets speak,
Ere the moon doth move
In her heavenly orb
Or Jove doth sit upon his golden
Thronez
Poetry is the fruit of love,
Nay passion.
For I love the flowers
The temperant wind in May,
Yet I do not write on those subjects,
Yay passion is the fruit of love.
Ere I spake to mine own heart
It did grow the delicate fruit
That called itself poetry.
And indeed I call mine self poet
And writer
And I am one.
Nay to those foul tempered men
Men of rank,
Yet there's more rancor to them
Than ranks of their own.
They do not believe
And yet poet am I.
And I write and they listen not.
Fool fool they are
Fool fool I was.
Am I not a poet?
Nay they will never believe.
They believed in Shakespeare
And am I not he?
Nay I am a poet
Humble
Not a playwright
Not a bard.
Not he whose words are held as celestial alone
I call mine self a poet
And a poet I be.