A poet takes what's ugly, makes it shine
As if it were the first eternal light,
And thereby turns its self into a sign
Of something different, in self-despite,
For it is not the thing itself he'll write,
But something better feeding on the first:
A poem is a pretty parasite
Making the best out of what was the worst.
So everything that poets have enversed
Is polished, cleaned, made otherwise, improved:
And though it were inflamed and fit to burst
With pus, the inflammation is removed
By poetry. But then, what can I do
Whose topic's the already-perfect you?
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