Open The Book. (the Gilt Rubs Off

Ports Are Necessities, Like Postage Stamps Or Soap, But They Seldom Seem To Care What Impressions They Make.

Why Shouldn't We, So Generally Addicted To The Gigantic, At Last Have Some Small Works Of Art, Some Short Poems, Short Pieces Of Music [...], Some Intimate, Low-voiced, And Delicate Things In Our Mostly Huge And Roaring, Glaring World?

Close, Close All Night The Lovers Keep. They Turn Together In Their Sleep, Close As Two Pages In A Book That Read Each Other In The Dark. Each Knows All The Other Knows, Learned By Heart From Head To Toes.

What Childishness Is It That While There's Breath Of Life In Our Bodies, We Are Determined To Rush To See The Sun The Other Way Around?

Oh, Must We Dream Our Dreams And Have Them, Too?