I despair of ever writing excellent poetry.

Hear the voice of Isaac Rosenberg, soldier and poet, who once confessed with a heart weighed down: “I despair of ever writing excellent poetry.” These words do not reveal weakness but humanity, for even the greatest spirits are sometimes crushed beneath doubt. Rosenberg, who would die in the trenches of the Great War, spoke not from vanity, but from the aching knowledge of how high the mountain of poetry truly is, and how small one feels when standing at its base. His despair is not the denial of his gift, but the cry of one who yearns for greatness yet fears he cannot reach it.

The meaning of his lament is rooted in the eternal struggle of the artist: the gulf between vision and expression. Every poet dreams of perfection, of lines that endure beyond their time, but what they write often feels inadequate, falling short of the majesty they imagine. Rosenberg’s despair belongs to all who create—for to love an art deeply is also to feel unworthy of it. His words remind us that self-doubt is not the enemy of greatness, but its constant companion.

The ancients themselves knew this torment. Virgil, though celebrated in his age, was so dissatisfied with the Aeneid that he wished it burned upon his death. Michelangelo, even as he carved David, spoke of how the stone defied him, and how his hand was unfit for the visions that haunted his mind. In every age, those who touched greatness did so while trembling with the belief that they had failed. Rosenberg’s despair echoes this timeless truth: that humility and doubt often walk beside true genius.

History gives us vivid confirmation in the life of Emily Dickinson. She wrote nearly two thousand poems, yet published only a handful in her lifetime, and even then reluctantly. She feared her work was unworthy, that it would not stand before the scrutiny of others. And yet, her words endure with eternal fire, studied and loved across the world. So too with Rosenberg: though he despaired of excellence, his war poems—“Break of Day in the Trenches,” “Dead Man’s Dump”—are counted among the finest of his generation, carrying a truth few could equal.

There is paradox here. The poet despairs of writing excellent poetry, and yet that very despair is the mark of excellence. For the arrogant write carelessly, satisfied with mediocrity, while the true poet wrestles with his own inadequacy. Rosenberg’s doubt was not a flaw but the soil in which greatness grew. His humility forced him to push harder, to write more honestly, to strip away all vanity until only truth remained. The despair he voiced was itself proof that he understood the weight of poetry.

The lesson for us is clear: do not fear your doubts, nor despair when your work feels small. Doubt is the sign that you care deeply, that you see the height of the calling. To despair, as Rosenberg did, is to stand before the vastness of art with reverence. What matters is not that you feel inadequate, but that you continue nonetheless. For excellence is rarely recognized by the one who creates it—it is recognized by those who come after, who see in the imperfect work a glimmer of eternity.

Practical wisdom flows from this. When you create, embrace your doubts, but do not let them silence you. Write, paint, sing, build—not because you are certain of greatness, but because your soul demands expression. Share your work even if it feels unworthy, for history has shown that what one despairs over may be the very thing future generations treasure. And remember: despair is not the end of the journey, but the shadow that follows those who walk toward greatness.

Thus Rosenberg’s words endure as both lament and hidden triumph: he despaired of excellence, yet he achieved it. His confession teaches us that true greatness does not spring from pride, but from humility, from the ceaseless struggle to reach beyond oneself. Let this truth be passed down—that despair is not the death of art, but often its birth, and that the poet who feels unworthy may, in the end, write words that outlive empires.