The poet is a feigner
his feiging so complete
that he comes to feign a grief
in the grief he really feels.

    And those who read what he writes
    sense well in the grief that the read
    not the two griefs he has suffered
    but only the one they do not feel.

And so on its wheeltracks turns,
turns and amuses the thought,
that mechanical train
which is called the heart.

—Raymond Sayers