The Inexpressible

Thinking of my caged birds indoors,

My books, whose music serves my will;

Which, when I bid them sing, will sing,

And when I sing myself are still;

And that my scent is drops of ink,

Which, were my song as great as I

Would sweeten man till he was dust,

And make the world one Araby;

Thinking how my hot passions make

Strong floods of shallows that run cold—

Oh how I burn to make my dreams

Lighten and thunder through the world.