I wonder

The cave of making - Postscript
(W. H. Auden)

Time has taught you
          how much inspiration
your vices brought you,
          what imagination
can owe temptation
          yielded to,
that many a fine
          expressive line
would not have existed,
          had you resisted:
as a poet, you
          know this is true,
and though in Kirk
          you sometimes pray
to feel contrite,
          it doesn’t work.
Felix culpa, you say:
          perhaps you’re right.

You hope, yes,
          your books will excuse you,
save you from hell:
          nevertheless,
without looking sad,
          without in any way
seeming to blame
          (He doesn’t need to,
knowing well
          what a lover of art
like yourself pays heed to),
          God may reduce you
on Judgement Day
          to tears of shame,
reciting by heart
          the poems you would
have written, had
          your life been good.