Mr. Auden, we’ve never met, 
A source for me of late regret.
I may be wrong yet quite suspect, 
Mr. Eliot would reject, 
My supplication with hurried hiss, 
With back of hand I’d be dismissed. 
His furrowed brow would hold derision, 
For my moment for indecision, 
Leaving no leave for my revision.  

So Mr. Auden, hear my heart, 
Show me ways to make a start.
Teach the healing of our hearts.

Here I sit alone again,
I’m all alone without your pen,
Beside blank paper in my den.

Mr. Auden, I come to you, 
Seeking guidance on how you do, 
Explications of the whole, 
With unmatched ear for our soul.