It Took The Whole Of Creation To

Where White Is Black And Black Is White, I Won.

This House Has Been Far Out At Sea All Night, The Woods Crashing Through Darkness, The Booming Hills, Winds Stampeding The Fields Under The Window Floundering Black Astride And Blinding Wet Till Day Rose; Then Under An Orange Sky The Hills Had New Places, And Wind Wielded Blade-light, Luminous Black And Emerald, Flexing Like The Lens Of A Mad Eye.

The Sea Cries With Its Meaningless Voice, Treating Alike Its Dead And Its Living

The Inmost Spirit Of Poetry, In Other Words, Is At Bottom, In Every Recorded Case, The Voice Of Pain – And The Physical Body, So To Speak, Of Poetry, Is The Treatment By Which The Poet Tries To Reconcile That Pain With The World.

The Deeps Are Cold: In That Darkness Camaraderie Does Not Hold: Nothing Touches But, Clutching, Devours.