How red the rose that is the soldier
Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor on the nunnery beaches.
Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
All poetry is experimental poetry.
Throw away the light, the definitions, and say what you see in the dark.
Beauty is momentary in the mind -- The fitful tracing of a portal; But in the flesh it is immortal. The body dies; the body's beauty lives. So evenings die, in their green going, A wave, interminably flowing.