Way Out Side

I have the wrong kind of awe.
I don’t much weep for the world.

That’s not the sort who should write
Out of doors, who has not love.

If I don’t ask to be read
Or praised or prized, may I please

Pleat my own hours with the world
As I choose, and not be told

How one can’t be good or true,
Can’t prove one sees the best way

If one is one, not sealed, stamped,
And filled with your views and yours?

No? Fine. You all go your way,
And I’ll go by the way’s side.