Is It In These Bottomless Nights That

Stronger Than Alcohol, Vaster Than Poetry, Ferment The Freckled Red Bitterness Of Love!

It Is Wrong To Say: I Think. One Ought To Say: I Am Thought. I Is Someone Else.

The Poet Makes Himself A Seer Through A Long, Vast And Painstaking Derangement Of All The Senses

On The Blue Summer Evenings, I Will Go Along The Paths, And Walk Over The Short Grass, As I Am Pricked By The Wheat: Daydreaming I Will Feel The Coolness On My Feet. I Will Let The Wind Bathe My Bare Head. I Will Not Speak, I Will Have No Thoughts: But Infinite Love Will Mount In My Soul; And I Will Go Far, Far Off, Like A Gypsy, Through The Countryside - As Happy As If I Were A Woman. "sensation

A Thousand Dreams Within Me Softly Burn: From Time To Time My Heart Is Like Some Oak Whose Blood Runs Golden Where A Branch Is Torn.