The Poet's Calling Poem by John Thorkild Ellison

I knew a man who dreamed his life away,
Who fell in love a hundred times or more,
A charming trait, whatever you may say,
He was no charlatan or crashing bore.
He used to write a verse or two, he seemed to find
Release in this - he got things off his chest,
Perhaps it mollified his troubled mind -
Perhaps it helped him when he was depressed.
Can you explain to me why blackbirds sing?
The fact remains quite simply that they do,
Composing verse is such a funny thing,
It meant much more to him than me or you,
Some of his work was really quite inspired,
Some was less good, but some was really fine,
Words were like water which he changed into wine,
You know how much he liked to be admired!
This is no gift to underestimate,
It found fruition in his later years,
But I don't envy him his poet's fate,
He paid the price for it in lover's tears!