These fifty books of verse, all new
How could my tardy mind conceive?
How each book quite different from other
Such wealth of rhyme and rhythm achieve
A mystery to me as to you, when, reader!
In three languages my poems I see
When on a new subject each time
Pour down with ease my sensibility
But how could the poet in me survive
Had I not sung for the power Supreme
Prayed not to Him to maintain my urge
Cried not for a drop of His creative stream
All things in the world, though, turn to dust
He won’t let die my verse, I trust.