Ginsberg dreamt of Whitman inside a country store.
Alighieri with the mind of Aeneid did converse.
Milton had his Father; de Vere his royal Sun.
Plath, at the last, had a oven.
Eliot had the Church, and Kerouac a bottle.
Auden had his students (too much of them).
Houseman his memories and Owen his trenches.
Not even to write, to dream, but just to breathe --
For your sweet smell I would trade their muses all.