No place of grace for those who avoid the Face. No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the Voice.
Poetry is a mug's game.
So the lover must struggle for words.
Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it towards some overwhelming question