When I Was Young My

The Figure A Poem Makes. It Begins In Delight And Ends In Wisdom.

Nothing Not Built With Hands Of Course Is Sacred. But Here Is Not A Question Of What's Sacred; Rather Of What To Face Or Run Away From. I'd Hate To Be A Runaway From Nature.

As For His Evil Tidings, Belshazzar's Overthrow, Why Hurry To Tell Belshazzar What Soon Enough He Would Know?

So Was I Once Myself A Swinger Of Birches. And So I Dream Of Going Back To Be.

The Truth Is The River Flows Into The Canyon Of Ceasing-to-question-what-doesn't-concern-us, As Sooner Or Later We Have To Cease Somewhere.