The Triumphs Of A Mysterious Non-meeting Are

A Loss, But Who Still Mourns The Breath Of One Woman, Or Laments One Wife? Though My Heart Never Can Forget, How, For One Look, She Gave Up Her Life.

And This Tenderness Was Not Like That Which A Certain Poet At The Beginning Of The Century Called True And, For Some Reason, Quiet. No, Not At All— It Rang Out, Like The First Waterfall, It Crunched Like The Crust Of Bluish Ice And It Prayed With A Swanlike Voice, And It Broke Down Right Before Our Eyes.

Let Whoever Wants To, Relax In The South, And Bask In The Garden Of Paradise. Here Is The Essence Of North—and It's Autumn I've Chosen As This Year's Friend.

I Am In The Middle Of It: Chaos And Poetry; Poetry And Love And Again, Complete Chaos. Pain, Disorder, Occasional Clarity; And At The Bottom Of It All: Only Love; Poetry. Sheer Enchantment, Fear, Humiliation. It All Comes With Love

Mary Magdalene Beat Her Breasts And Sobbed, His Dear Disciple, Stone-faced, Stared. His Mother Stood Apart. No Other Looked Into Her Secret Eyes. Nobody Dared.