|
I'd just done the best work |
|
to fall into my hands for quite some time: |
|
of night oil I'd burned much, |
|
made sure both style and content were sublime |
|
So I put it forward |
|
to the public forum |
|
in anticipation of my due acclaim. |
|
And meanwhile, by contrast, |
|
I'd penned a eulogy, pure workaday, |
|
just hack work, just dashed off, |
|
packed full of prolix puff and sad cliche.... |
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No-one can really tell |
|
when their hand's been played out well |
|
and I don't even know |
|
how my own story goes |
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or if it's worth a jot. |
|
I can't see my stream. |
|
What I thought was perfect, |
|
what I thought was polished, |
|
no-one thought it worth much |
|
and they made that clear. |
|
What I thought was worthless, |
|
merely repetition |
|
somehow tugged the heartstrings, |
|
brought them all to tears. |
|
I can't see my stream. |
|
No-one can ever know |
|
what of their own's their very best. |
