Any Work Of Art Must

Nature's Never Quite Sure She Hasn't Erred In Her Vague Design.

My Long Two-pointed Ladder's Sticking Through A Tree Toward Heaven Still, And There's A Barrel That I Didn't Fill Beside It, And There May Be Two Or Three Apples I Didn't Pick Upon Some Bough. But I Am Done With Apple-picking Now. Essence Of Winter Sleep Is On The Night, The Scent Of Apples: I Am Drowsing Off.

There Is Much In Nature Against Us. But We Forget: Take Nature Altogether Since Time Began, Including Human Nature, In Peace And War, And It Must Be A Little More In Favor Of Man.

Now No Joy But Lacks Salt That Is Not Dashed With Pain And Weariness And Fault; I Crave The Stain Of Tears, The Aftermark Of Almost Too Much Love, The Sweet Of Bitter Bark And Burning Clove.

My Definition Of Poetry (if I Were Forced To Give One) Would Be This: Words That Have Become Deeds.