Robert Lowell's "Reading Myself" (from History):

Like thousands, I took just pride and more than just,
Struck matches that brought my blood to a boil;
I memorized the tricks to set the river on fire—
Somehow never wrote something to go back to.
Can I suppose I am finished with wax flowers
And have earned my grass on the minor slopes of Parnassus. …
No honeycomb is built without a bee
Adding circle to circle, cell to cell,
The wax and honey of a mausoleum—
The round dome proves its maker is alive;
The corpse of the insect lives embalmed in honey,
Prays that its perishable work live long
Enough for the sweet-tooth bear to desecrate—
This open book … my open coffin.