Why do I write—to please posterity,
In hopes my little artifacts will last?
Though I may wish that such a fate might be
And therefore mean to keep them safely stashed,
That’s not what moves me to indite a line
Then write another with a matching beat;
It’s rather the allure of the design,
Discovering how to measure out the feet
In ways that correspond with flowing thought,
Which finds out as it goes where it is bound
As if what it discovers had been sought,
Implicit in the mystery of sound.
The reason for my writing is this rhyme
That leads me to discover the sublime.