The old men ask for more time; the young waste it. And the philosopher simply smiles, knowing there is none there.

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.

Natural, hell! What was it Chaucer Said once about the long toil that goes like blood to the poems making? Leave it to nature and the verse sprawls, Limp as bindweed, if it break at all Life's iron crust Man, you must sweat And rhyme your guts taut, if you'd build Your verse a ladder.

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

The old men ask for more time; the young waste it. And the philosopher simply smiles, knowing there is none there.

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

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.