Men sweat and cry.
I muse and leer.
I have an eye,
But not a tear.

I can descry
(And yet I sing)
No poetry
In anything.

A naughty planet.
Yet, as poet,
I love to scan it,
Hate to know it.

There's beauty there,
Solid and sad—
A strangled bear,
An ape gone mad,

A boy on stilts,
A snail-eyed god,
Women in quilts,
And men in quod.

Elbow on knee
I muse and blink,
And thoughtless see,
Or sightless think.