Sunlight 's a thing that needs a window Before it enter a dark room. Windows don't happen." So two old poets, Hunched at their beer in the low haze Of an inn parlour, while the talk ran Noisily by them, glib with prose.

I have nowhere to go. The swift satellites show The clock of my whole being is slow.

It is too late to start For destinations not of the heart . I must stay here with my hurt.

We live in our own world , A world that is too small For you to stoop and enter Even on hands and knees, The adult subterfuge.

The nearest we approach God ...is as creative beings. The poet, by echoing the primary imagination, recreates. Through his work he forces those who read him to do the same, thus bringing them... nearer to the actual being of God as displayed in action.

The deep spaces between stars , Fathomless as the cold shadow His mind cast.

I have been Merlin wandering in the woods Of a far country, where the winds waken Unnatural voices , my mind broken By a sudden acquaintance with man's rage.