I Don't Look On Poetry As Closed

The Gray Glaze Of The Past Attacks All Know-how...

Somewhere Someone Is Traveling Furiously Toward You, At Incredible Speed, Traveling Day And Night, Through Blizzards And Desert Heat, Across Torrents, Through Narrow Passes. But Will He Know Where To Find You, Recognize You When He Sees You, Give You The Thing He Has For You?

A Perfect Example Of The New Republic's Urge To Drape Itself With The Togas Of Classical Respectability.

All Beauty, Resonance, Integrity, Exist By Deprivation Or Logic Of Strange Position.

I Want A Bedroom Near The Sky, An Astrologer's Cave Where I Can Fashion Eclogues That Are Chaste And Grave.