I am free to write at last …
Every morning I go up to the topfloor room and lock myself in …
Then I break into a sweat of fear ….

I tremble like a guilty thing …
I have been in the machine so long, I am naked and afraid out of it …
Every morning millions of people go to work,
They earn an honest living …
What right have I to sit in a room and play with rhymes?

Then, again, there is a fear of something inside me …
There is a supernatural fear …
I fear that Dæmon that rules the poet
And that sways him like a banner in the winds of inspiration …
I am afraid to let go … there is some taboo I must break …

But morning after morning I go in and lock the door,
And sweat, and fear, and stare at my paper …
The days pass: I have nothing to show …

Relatives are clamouring about duty …
A baby is on the way: I have no money:
How shall I look after wife and child?
I am a weakling, an idler; their worst fears of me are proved true …

I secretly agree with them: but I have set my teeth and go on …
I write light stuff and send it to the Times …
The Times begins to print: I deepen the dose:
They print on: I let go entirely: still they print:
And at last a new talent is blazoned forth in an editorial,
And the long career is started.