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As things are, and as fundamentally they must always be, poetry is not a career, but a mug's game. No honest poet can ever
feel quite sure of the permanent value of what he has written: He may have wasted his time and messed up his life for
nothing.
T. S. Eliot

CXXXVIII



When my love swears that she is made of truth,

I do believe her though I know she lies,

That she might think me some untutor'd youth,

Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.

Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,

Although she knows my days are past the best,

Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:

On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed:

But wherefore says she not she is unjust? 

And wherefore say not I that I am old?

O! love's best habit is in seeming trust,

And age in love, loves not to have years told:

  Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,

  And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.

 	--William Shakespeare