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?

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.

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.

Keelhaul the poets in the vestry chairs.

Leo Connellan has retained his soul and voice in Provincetown and Other Poems.