If your work is shouting, deep-breasted,   From sun-up to sundown,   Take care in time, a shouter you'll become.      Voiced, and only big, big voice,   No other route but voice --   Uncorked, fragrant, tanned beneath the sun.      Stoke it in the middle.   Burn, shout.      I had a dream that I presented myself to you   And that you took me,   Sawdust still in the corner needing sweeping.      And in the sunny, dusty corner of the taking,   That you yourself were took --   Possessed, in fact, if even on briefly.      Stoke it in the middle.   Burn, shout.      O, how curious the safehouse   Betwixt studious and drunk:   We wail as well over wine as we do loss.      Bid you more than holy works   From standing by my side.   I bid you back what I have taken from you.