Nothing whips my blood like verse.

In the imagination, we are from henceforth (so long as you read) locked in a fraternal embrace, the classic caress of author and reader.

Night is a room darkened for lovers. . . .

If they give you lined paper, write the other way.

This is where the difficulty lies. We are lucky when that underground current can be tapped and the secret spring of all our lives will send up its pure water. It seldom happens. A thousand trivialities push themselves to the front, our lying habits of everyday speech and thought are foremost, telling us that that is what "they" want to hear. Tell them something else.

I have had my dream -- like others --and it has come to nothing, so thatI remain now carelesslywith feet planted on the groundand look up at the sky.