And time cast forth my mortal creature To drift or drown upon the seas Acquainted with the salt adventure Of tides that never touch the shores. - I who was rich was made the richer By sipping at the the vine of days.

My birthday began with the water - Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name.

It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobbledstreets silent and the hunched courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea.

I think, that if I touched the earth, It would crumble; It is so sad and beautiful, So tremulously like a dream.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying light

Dark is a way and light is a place, Heaven that never was Nor will be ever is always true "Poem on His Birthday