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 …