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

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

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

I have known exile and a wild passion Of longing changing to a cold ache. King, beggar and fool , I have been all by turns, Knowing the body's sweetness, the mind 's treason ; Taliesin still, I show you a new world , risen, Stubborn with beauty , out of the heart 's need .

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?

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 .

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