Again I see how nothingness could force
a man into contortions of despair.
He hides his weak points, hoping to declare
a standard that can hold itself by force
of argument, or else by force of force,
an excellence, effective even where
no other compass turns. His every care
is subject to this fear of lack of force.
How can I judge them? I, who do not falter,
but fall at will, caught by I-know-not-what,
and in the airy nothing turn and see
the fittingness of fourteen lines and volta,
chosen without regret, no matter what,
romantic and traditional and free.
