I'd just done the best work
To fall into my hands for quite some time:
Of night oil I'd burned much,
Made sure both style and content were sublime
So I put it forward
To the public forum
In anticipation of my due acclaim.

And meanwhile, by contrast,
I'd penned a eulogy, pure workaday,
Just hack work, just dashed off,
Packed full of prolix puff and sad cliche
No-one can really tell
When their hand's been played out well
And I don't even know
How my own story goes
Or if it's worth a jot.

I can't see my stream.

What I thought was perfect,
What I thought was polished,
No-one thought it worth much
And they made that clear.
What I thought was worthless,
Merely repetition
Somehow tugged the heartstrings,
Brought them all to tears.

I can't see my stream.

No-one can ever know
What of their own's their very best.