My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called "standing people. . . ."

If poetry should address itself to the same needs and aspirations, the same hopes and fears, to which the Bible addresses itself, it might rival it in distribution.

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.

I am one of you and being one of you is being and knowing what I am and know. Yet I am the necessary Angel of earth, since, in my sight, you see the earth again.

Realism is a corruption of reality.

At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.

I still feel the need of some imperishable bliss.