Sweet Springtime Is My Time Is Your

A Poet Is Someone Who Is Abnormally Fond Of That Precision Which Creates Movement. Which Is To Say The Highest Form Of Concentration Possible: Fascination; To Report On The Electrifying Experience Of Being

I Was Too Tired To Think. I Merely Felt The Town As A Unique Unreality. What Was It? I Knew -- The Moon's Picture Of A Town. These Streets With Their Houses Did Not Exist, They Were But A Ludicrous Projection Of The Moon's Sumptuous Personality. This Was A City Of Pretend, Created By The Hypnotism Of Moonnight. -- Yet When I Examined The Moon She Too Seemed But A Painting Of A Moon And The Sky In Which She Lived A Fragile Echo Of Color. If I Blew Hard The Whole Shy Mechanism Would Collapse Gently With A Neat Soundless Crash. I Must Not, Or Lose All.

Love Being Such, Or Such, The Normal Corners Of Your Heart Will Never Guess How Much My Wonderful Jealousy Is Dark

Tomorrow Is Our Permanent Address.

I Do Not Know What It Is About You That Closes And Opens;only Something In Me Understands The Voice Of Your Eyes Is Deeper Than All Roses