I close my eyes to this room of bare rest
alive with these books, and one open page
pouring out a story of greatest quest:
try to smell the scent of another rage

For I shall write my life, yet the reader
is to occupy and enter this room,
share the taste for everlasting clover,
each leaf sprinkled with sweet joy and gloom.

From cover to cover, invent with truth,
erase the bitter ink that dries life out
and invoke the Muses to join the book.
Sometimes I pray, I miss and cry it out.

I'll arise and go now, go to Insfree
and a cabin built there, from clay and wattles made...