Considering his vocation in worn age,the poet reflects wryly on what he can expect from a lifetime’s workSilkworms Work and treasure Till Death
He kept a list of poems there were to write,
A personal list, or imperative and sour –
Beyond his windows all was digital,
The nominative unpleasantness of thought
Recurred, he reasoned, or every day in speech.
He feared the public knew the thing he was,[br]And one of those who would not be alone.
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Source: theguardian.com