The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.
I am the angel of Reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door.
It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place, It has to face the man of the time.
Compare the silent rose of the sun And rain, the blood-rose living in its smell, With this paper, this dust. That states the point.
Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.