To an editor

Dear Sir: Your silence sets my ears ablaze;
   your spurning pen is eloquently mute.
   No lover ever pressed a colder suit
than my attempt to win your purse’s praise;
no offering met an idol’s stonier gaze.
   The Powers are pleased, or not; justice is moot.
   Cain’s garden failed of sacrificial fruit,
and he was marked, ‘Can’t use this,’ all his days.
Enough! I’ll trouble you no more, but let
   my heart’s ink fertilize some potter’s field,
      and heedless roots peruse my buried pages.
That faithful verdancy will not forget
   it was my labour’s bones increased its yield,
      my blackened lines that greened it for the ages.