Life and Existence

Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother Of sunlight And the legend of the green chapels.

After the first death there is no other.

And death shall have no dominion.

Light breaks where no sun shines; Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart Push in their tides.

The absolutes the eternities Their outlying districts Are not my theme I am hungry for life and for death also I know what I know and I write it.

The absolutes the eternities Their outlying districts Are not my theme I am hungry for life and for death also I know what I know and I write it.

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees Is my destroyer. And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees Is my destroyer. And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

We are condemned to kill time: Thus we die bit by bit

We are condemned to kill time: Thus we die bit by bit

the world changes if two, dizzy and entwined, fall on the grass

We come from not being and march toward not being: nothing between two nothings, zero between two zeros, and since between two nothings nothing can be, let’s drink to the splendor of not being our bodies.

We come from not being and march toward not being: nothing between two nothings, zero between two zeros, and since between two nothings nothing can be, let’s drink to the splendor of not being our bodies.

I wish to make a noise with my feet. I want my soul to find its proper body.

It is a true error to marry with poets or to be by them.

He stared at ruin. Ruin stared straight back. He thought they were old friends.

But never did Henry, as he thought he did, end anyone and hacks her body up and hide the pieces, where they may be found. He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody’s missing. Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up. Nobody is ever missing.

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.

I don’t see how Henry, pried open for all the world to see, survived.

Mountainous, woman not breaks and will bend: sways God nearby: anguish comes to an end. Blossomed Sarah, and I blossom. Is that thing alive? I hear a famisht howl.

The mind is a city like London, Smoky and populous: it is a capital Like Rome, ruined and eternal, Marked by the monument which no one Now remembers.

One day beside some flowers near his nose He will be thinking, When will I look at it? And pain, still in the middle distance, will reply At what? and he will know it’s gone, O where! and begin to tremble and cry. He will begin to cry as a child cries Whose puppy is mangled under a screaming wheel.

Time is the school in which we learn, Time is the fire in which we burn.

That inescapable animal walks with me. Has followed me since the black womb held, Moves where I move, distorting my gesture, A caricature, a swollen shadow, A stupid clown of the spirit’s motive, Perplexes and affronts with his own darkness, The secret life of belly and bone.