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.

somewhere within sight of the tree of poetry that is eternity wearing the green leaves of time .

Poetry is that / which arrives at the intellect / by way of the heart.

You cannot find the centre Where we dance , where we play, Where life is still asleep Under the closed flower , Under the smooth shell Of eggs in the cupped nest That mock the faded blue Of your remoter heaven .

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

Is there a place here for the spirit ? Is there time on this brief platform for anything other than mind 's failure to explain itself?

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