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

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

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.

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 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.

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