I tend to hide behind my words
When hurt, I think I am;
I play them out, these golden cords
To hurt, and so, to tame.

A moment’s thought I never give,
I aim— then loose them free.
My poisoned arrows, you, they cleave,
But I must bend the knee.

Although with false contempt I plow
Your fields, your high esteem,
A single seed of truth I vow
From which my words I deem.

Regret will be my anger’s stem
If sprouting in my wake:
O by this truth I must condemn
This friendship, reap, and rake.