Now the peak of summer's past, the sky is overcast And the love we swore would last for an age seems deceit.

High sprits they had: gravity they flouted.

Flying alone! Nothing gives such a sense of mastery over time over mechanism, mastery indeed over space, time, and life itself, as this.

Now the peak of summer's past, the sky is overcast And the love we swore would last for an age seems deceit.

Selfhood begins with a walking away, And love is proved in letting go.

The poetic myths are dead; and the poetic image, which is the myth of the individual, reigns in their stead.

A poet is not a public figure. A poet should be read and not seen.