they believe in Christ and Longfellow, both dead

Time cannot children,poets,lovers tell- measure imagine,mystery,a kiss -not though mankind would rather know than feel

one pierced moment whiter than the rest -turning from the tremendous lie of sleep i watch the roses of the day grow deep.

Tumbling-hair picker of buttercups violets dandelions And the big bullying daisies through the field wonderful with eyes a little sorry Another comes also picking flowers

-Before leaving my room i turn, and (stooping through the morning) kiss this pillow, dear where our heads lived and were.

Kisses are a better fate than wisdom.

The symbol of all art is the Prism. The goal is unrealism. The method is destructive. To break up the white light of objective realism, into the secret glories which it contains.