IF EVER I MUST SING AS POETS HAVE When I wander through the forest with words, would Hesse like to go with me? When the seasons change in my poem, would Rilke watch it cheerfully? When I write the sadness from my soul, would Hölderlin truly understand me? When Christmas candles are burning in my text, would Eichendorff hear the chiming bells? When I put all my love on a sheet of paper, would it on Goethe's heart cast a spell? When I've done my best to create a sonnet, would it seduce Shakespeare as well? I call myself a poet, but am I really one? Is there a space among the great, a place where I belong? Will anyone remember me when I'm dead and gone? © Michelle Klemm