But childhood prolonged, cannot remain a fairyland. It becomes a hell.
O remember In your narrowing dark hours That more things move Than blood in the heart.
Your work is carved out of agony as a statue is carved out of marble.
The measured blood beats out the year's delay.
The Initial Mystery that attends any journey is: how did the traveler reach his starting point in the first place?
Poetry is often generations in advance of the thought of its time.