What Time Is It? It Is By

Such Was A Poet And Shall Be And Is -who'll Solve The Depths Of Horror To Defend A Sunbeam's Architecture With His Life: And Carve Immortal Jungles Of Despair To Hold A Mountain's Heartbeat In His Hand.

May My Heart Always Be Open To Little Birds Who Are The Secrets Of Living Whatever They Sing Is Better Than To Know And If Men Should Not Hear Them Men Are Old May My Mind Stroll About Hungry And Fearless And Thirsty And Supple And Even If It's Sunday May I Be Wrong For Whenever Men Are Right They Are Not Young And May Myself Do Nothing Usefully And Love Yourself So More Than Truly There's Never Been Quite Such A Fool Who Could Fail Pulling All The Sky Over Him With One Smile

For Whatever We Lose (like A You Or A Me), It's Always Our Self We Find In The Sea.

Meanwhile Myself Et Cetera Lay Quietly In The Deep Mud Et Cetera (dreaming, Et Cetera, Of Your Smile Eyes Knees And Of Your Etcetera.)

If A Poet Is Anybody, He Is Somebody To Whom Things Made Matter Very Little - Somebody Who Is Obsessed By Making.