How many roads we take that lead to Nowhere, The alley overgrown, no meaning now but loss: Not that veritable garden where everything comes easy.
All of the arts of illusion are like this: even crafting the poem which steers the flat hulk of words through its narrow neck then lofts mainsails by manipulating strings, exerting influence. The…
From time to time we take our pen in hand And scribble symbols on a blank white sheet. Their meaning is at everyone's command; It is a game whose rules…
Lay down these words before your mind like rocks.
The unremitting voice of nightly streams That wastes so oft, we think, its tuneful powers, If neither soothing to the worm that gleams Through dewy grass, nor small birds hushed in…
In my craft or sullen art Exercised in the still night When only the moon rages And the lovers lie abed With all their griefs in their arms, I labour by singing light Not for ambition or bread Or…
That outré architecture the clouds! I came out dog tired my eyes smeared with words & saw them. I had to laugh. Nature exceeds me in everything including folly. That's truth enough…