The Stones Were Sharp, The Wind Came

I Can't Go On Flying Apart Just For Those Who Want The Benefit Of A Few Verbal Kicks. My God, Do You Know What Poems Like That Cost? They're Not Written Vicariously: They Come Out Of Actual Suffering, Real Madness.

I Have Come To A Still, But Not A Deep Center, A Point Outside The Glittering Current; My Eyes Stare At The Bottom Of A River, At The Irregular Stones, Iridescent Sandgrains, My Mind Moves In More Than One Place, In A Country Half-land, Half-water. I Am Renewed By Death, Thought Of My Death, The Dry Scent Of A Dying Garden In September, The Wind Fanning The Ash Of A Low Fire. What I Love Is Near At Hand, Always, In Earth And Air.

The Damage Of Teaching: The Constant Contact With The Undeveloped.

I Long For The Imperishable Quiet At The Heart Of Form.

And Soon A Branch, Part Of A Hidden Scene,the Leafy Mind, That Long Was Tightly Furled,will Turn Its Private Substance Into Green,and Young Shoots Spread Upon Our Inner World.