Pass

I think you would not have me plumb my heart
In these bluff pages, open to the world;
I'm fairly sure you'd have my feelings furled
And neatly put away. But don't you start!
I'll write whatever I desire here,
And your advice, though valued, will not rule.
Do you imagine I am such a fool
To trap myself in words? No, no, I fear
The clean exposure of an open page
And place emotions in a gilded cage
Which catches them forever in a glass
Visible to all, and yet unknown
How old they are, or where they first were grown;
And so, I prithee, let my poems pass.