Unto seventy years and seven
Hide your double birthright well
You, that are the brat of Heaven
And the pampered heir to Hell

Let your rhymes be tinsel treasures
Strung and seen and thrown aside
Drill your apt and docile measures
Sternly as you drill your pride

Show your quick, alarming skill in
Tidy mockeries of art
Never, never dip your quill in
Ink that rushes from your heart

When your pain must come to paper
See it dust, before the day
Let your night-light curl and caper
Let it lick the words away

Never print, poor child, a lay on
Love and tears and anguishing
Lest a cooled, benignant Phaon
Murmur, "Silly little thing!"