If only all the poems in men’s hearts
Were written; that each one had a pen
And tongue to write, and time,
That each could interpret silence into words–
If only all the beauty of each day
From every humble corner of the earth
Recorded, would spring from the mind
To dance in every kind of air, in mirth–
What we would gain, were every man a poet!
But since they spend their days in other chases
We who write poetry must gather up the corners
Where unmade poems hide, and make them!