I called that need my Soul That surged from somewhere North, And knew I died inside all days If not to follow forth.

I called that crucible my Craft That caught its urge, caught hold, And spoke its spark in spellings That its spirit might be told.

I called that dread my Evil That threw threats— I know not where to, Malice marring, hissing horrid, hard: “Ye know not what ye do.”

I called in fright— and Conscience Taught, in spite of spite, to live, And gave me so what I do know— That I must know to give.

I called their music hither, And felt the harmonies bid To set in word what I had heard— And, as it bade, I did

That I might stand so whole now, With my impulse, all alone. And I built a bed of Poetry, And I called that bed my own.