Poetry is innocent, not wise. It does not learn from experience, because each poetic experience is unique.

The body, what is it, Father, but a sign To love the force that grows us, to give back What in Thy palm is senselessness and mud?

Poetry is innocent, not wise. It does not learn from experience, because each poetic experience is unique.

My soul is now her day, my day her night, So I lie down, and so I rise.

But with exquisite breathing you smile, with satisfaction of love, And I touch you again as you tick in the silence and settle in sleep.

Keelhaul the poets in the vestry chairs.

Laughter and grief join hands. Always the heart Clumps in the breast with heavy stride; The face grows lined and wrinkled like a chart, The eyes bloodshot with tears and tide. Let the wind blow, for many a man shall die.