There Are Three Cures For Ennui: Sleep,

This Spring As It Comes Bursts Up In Bonfires Green, Wild Puffing Of Emerald Trees, And Flame-filled Bushes, Thorn-blossom Lifting In Wreaths Of Smoke Between Where The Wood Fumes Up And The Watery, Flickering Rushes. I Am Amazed At This Spring, This Conflagration Of Green Fires Lit On The Soil Of The Earth, This Blaze Of Growing, And Sparks That Puff In Wild Gyration, Faces Of People Streaming Across My Gaze.

In The Dust Where We Have Buried The Silent Races And Their Abominations We Have Buried So Much Of The Delicate Magic Of Life.

But I Like The Feel Of Men On Things, While They're Alive. There's A Feel Of Men About Trucks, Because They've Been Handled With Men's Hands, All Of Them.

My Belief Is In The Blood And Flesh As Being Wiser Than The Intellect. The Body-unconsciou S Is Where Life Bubbles Up In Us. It Is How We Know That We Are Alive, Alive To The Depths Of Our Souls And In Touch Somewhere With The Vivid Reaches Of The Cosmos.

Things Men Have Made With Wakened Hands, And Put Soft Life Into Are Awake Through Years With Transferred Touch, And Go On Glowing For Long Years. And For This Reason, Some Old Things Are Lovely Warm Still With The Life Of Forgotten Men Who Made Them.