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 good poet sticks to his real loves, to see within the realm of possibility. He never tries to hold hands with God or the human race.

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?

To make the child in your own image is a capital crime, for your image is not worth repeating. The child knows this and you know it. Consequently you hate each other.

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.

Poetry is not a way of saying things; it's a way of seeing things.

Already old, the question Who shall die? Becomes unspoken Who is innocent?