Damn wind shift sudden as a woman mind.
Any serious attempt to try to do something worthwhile is ritualistic.
We make too much of that long groan which underlines the past.
I know when dark-haired evening put on her bright silk at sunset, and, folding the sea sidled under the sheet with her starry laugh, that there'd be no rest, there'd be no forgetting. Is like telling mourners round the graveside about resurrection, they want the dead back.
The first thing we have to do is get rid of the pentameter. To ditch the pentameter.
The personal vocabulary, the individual melody whose metre is one's biography, joins in that sound, with any luck, and the body moves like a walking, a waking island.