I Don't Look On Poetry As Closed

Just When I Thought There Wasn't Room Enough For Another Thought In My Head, I Had This Great Idea—

Sometimes A Musical Phrase Would Perfectly Sum Up The Mood Of A Moment. One Of Those Lovelorn Sonatas For Wind Instruments Was Riding Past On A Solemn White Horse. Everybody Wondered Who The New Arrival Was.

The Term Ignorant Is Indeed Perhaps An Overstatement, Implying As It Does That Something Is Known Somewhere, Whereas In Reality We Are Not Even Sure Of This: We In Fact Cannot Aver With Any Degree Of Certainty That We Are Ignorant. Yet This Is Not So Bad; We Have At Any Rate Kept Our Open-mindedness -- That, At Least, We May Be Sure That We Have -- And Are Not In Any Danger, Or So It Seems, Of Freezing Into The Pious Attitudes Of Those True Spiritual Bigots Whose Faces Are Turned Toward Eternity And Who Therefore Can See Nothing.

To The Poet As A Basement Quilt, But Perhaps To Some Reader A Latticework Of Regrets.

You Stupefied Me. We Waxed, Carnivores, Late And Alight In The Beaded Winter. All Was Ominous, Luminous.