Indifference: of a Poet

I do not write to please a thousand hearts Forgive these words when harsh; forbear when true The gift of writing grows till breath departs Compassion feeds my muse a burning dew. If thou doth read my verses, bless thine own The faintest stars do tame the bridled seas If thou doth hate my stanzas, leave it sown For birds are birds when birds attain increase. Repeat my rhymes to mind and speak like rain I bear the least of worries, save these tears If quaint my words, do read and read again Till arts of chide return and melt to cheers. Some lived this dream while time had meekness deep Do leave to rest my muse as thine's at sleep.