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

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.

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 am a man now. Pass your hand over my brow. You can feel the place where the brains grow.

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

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.

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