When one like Marlowe or Crane,
Shelley or Keats has achieved
His self-determined goals,
Well, it is time to declare it
Done and make room for whoever
Comes next. Some of the rest
Of us however aren’t so sure.
There are goals abounding
And nights when our hypotheses
Are rent by witches with sniggers --
That die away perhaps but are
Soon replaced to fend off
Our latest conclusions, the next
Painting, poem or design.
We rail at critics but were
It not for them we might
Think our slight efforts
Worthy of places along
Side Byron, Blake and Defoe,
More insightful than anything
By Wittgenstein and die.
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