True gardeners cannot bear a glove Between the sure touch and the tender root.
How much hope, expectation, and sheer hard work goes into the smallest success! There is no being sure of anything except that whatever has been created will change in time.
Death does frame a person and somehow it is the good that stays.
There the door is always open into the “holy” — growth, birth, death.
So this was fame at last! Nothing but a vast debt to be paid to the world in energy, blood, and time.
The beginner hugs his infant poem to him and does not want it to grow up. But you may have to break your poem to remake it.