Thinking of my caged birds indoors,
  My books, whose music serves my will;
Which, when I bid them sing, will sing,
  And when I sing myself are still;

And that my scent is drops of ink,
  Which, were my song as great as I,
Would sweeten man till he was dust,
  And make the world one Araby;
Thinking how my hot passions make
  Strong floods of shallows that run cold -
Oh how I burn to make my dreams
  Lighten and thunder through the world!