Had Rimbaud been just human,
his mind gone with the birds,
his life would have been happy,
but would we have his words?
Had Wilde been just a human,
his mind gone with the times,
his life would have been happy,
but would we have his rhymes?
Had Yeats been just a human,
his mind adrift or worse,
his life would have been happy,
but would we have his verse?
II
Now that we have their children,
whose fathers are away,
is life now kind and happy,
or do its thoughts still stray?
Now that we have their labour,
their passion and their sweat,
is life now kind and happy,
or are its cheeks still wet?
As doctors they have failed us,
the poets of those years,
and if that was their purpose,
they now must be in tears.