I dreamed a dream of delight

On a warm spring night

And when I awoke

My conscience spoke.

 

 

It said, “dreams are not crimes,

But when a poet rhymes

In his art

You see his heart”.

 

As for me

I must practice ambiguity

In my poetry

Lest my art

Reveal my secret heart.

 

When I go away

Perchance my  verse will stay

And some will upbraid me

For my poor poetry

And the crime

Of ambiguous rhyme …