Timid is the poet
Who only scans a line-
Tripled spaced, collated
Outside the gentle breeze.
Double turn,
Each in its place -
Spill a little laughter,
Wipe a little face.
Dream in turn
Swatches of blue
Velvet rope -
Walking on red.
Tremble before speaking
To make the words squeak
Poetry is not for cowards
But for brigands and thieves.
Charlotte Ballard
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/timid-is-the-poet/
