O, elusive craft, shall I strive to make you perfect?
Is it better to graft
you in an English soil, subject
to rain and weak wind,
pick your fruits and pour you off,
bottled, boxed or tinned,
for the dry multitude to quaff?

Or shall I cast you
to wild winds and wildernesses
which yet may blast you
with their desert artifices,
but in which you may
grow rarer, rarely to be found,
sturdy and blasé
against the seasons? What is the ground
that may make sweet scents
from your influence?

Or, rather, does your
elusive nature foil my pen
because I conjour
you as unplanted seed, when
the greater poet
would harvest you and brew a beer
or the greatest yet
would pour you as an elixir?