But Superstition, Like Belief, Must Die.

One Of The Great Criticisms Of Poets Of The Past Is That They Said One Thing And Did Another.

Here Silence Stands Like Heat. Here Leaves Unnoticed Thicken, Hidden Weeds Flower, Neglected Waters Quicken, Luminously-peopled Air Ascends; And Past The Poppies Bluish Neutral Distance Ends The Land Suddenly Beyond A Beach Of Shapes And Shingle. Here Is Unfenced Existence: Facing The Sun, Untalkative, Out Of Reach.

Uncontradicting Solitude Supports Me On Its Giant Palm; And Like A Sea-anemone Or Simple Snail, There Cautiously Unfolds, Emerges, What I Am.

Deprivation Is For Me What Daffodils Were For Wordsworth.

I Have Wished You Something None Of The Others Would.