Some poets should inhale their works

Some poets should inhale their works,
instead of using pen and thought,
for life cannot with net be caught
as boredom is by clerks.

All their thinking, all their fury,
what use is it, what does it pay,
for life cannot close off a day
as trial is by jury.

They see a rose and then they think
of loves now lost, and of their sting,
forgetting that the reddest rose
returns here every spring.

They rummage long in baggage old
to dig up memories gone stale,
their life is old and weak and pale
as the poems they unfold.