I Love You, What Star

Poetry Will Absorb And Transmute, As It Always Has Done, And Glorify, All That We Can Know.

The Wind Shrieks, The Wind Grieves; It Dashes The Leaves On Walls, It Whirls Then Again; And The Enormous Sleeper Vaguely And Stupidly Dreams And Desires To Stir, To Resist A Ghost Of Pain.

No God Save Self, That Is The Way To Live.

The Truth--a Hideous Spectacle!

Oh, I've Discarded A Great Many [poems]. And Occasionally I've Discarded And Then Resurrected. I Would Find A Crumpled Yellow Ball Of Paper In The Wastebasket, In The Morning, And Open It To See What The Hell I'd Been Up To; And Occasionally It Was Something That Needed Only A Very Slight Change To Be Brought Off, Which I'd Missed The Day Before.