PAIN, Pain, the Creator Pain Is making a poet of me. He has flung my soul in the pit below Where his furnace fires the fiercest glow. He is feeding the flames with woe on woe. My heart must thrill with every throe That human creature can live to know. I must suffer that I may sing. Pain, Pain, the Creator Pain Is working his will with me. Ashes and ruin and havoc complete Has he wrought of all I held dear and sweet My soul lies scarred in the scorching heat. My thoughts run riot with blazing feet, Like madmen through a deserted street. And because I suffer, I sing. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE EARTH-CHILD IN THE GRASS by KATHERINE MANSFIELD HOW TO BE A POET (TO REMIND MYSELF) by WENDELL BERRY LA RONDE DU DIABLE by AMY LOWELL SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: IPPOLIT KONOVALOFF by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |