The Irony of It

I have not the fine audacity of men
Who have mastered the pen
Or the purse.
The complexes of many slaves are in my verse.
When I straighten my shoulders to look at the world boldly,
I see talent coldly
Damning me to stooped attrition.
Mine was a beggar's mission.
To dreams of beauty I should have been born blind.
I should have been content to walk behind,
Watching the mirror-stone
For the reflection of God\s delight:
A second-hand teller of the story,
A second=hand glory.
It was not right
That my mind should have echoed life's overtones,
That I should have seen a flower
Petalled in mighty power.