Last night
We dreamt of subtle imperfections
But were awakened to greater truths
Last night
We scratched with the skin of porcupines
Our breaths reflecting ice
Last night
Dashing out our fears
We heralded the end of youth
Last night
I swore I saw some of the old flicker
Tempt me in your eyes
Before, again-it up and left.

And Time
Only holds true
to the fashioning
and smoking of a cigarette.

And a woman who held a babe against her ***** said, "Speak to us of
Children."

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit,
not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you
with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that
is stable.

I wish I could pull you
From my thoughts
And lay you down next to me

In your arms
By your side
Is the only place I long to be

Maybe I could sneak away
And playfully flirt
With your memory

I long for your embrace
And will wait for you
Indefinitely

If only we could
Escape my mind
To create a new reality

Until then
I return each night
To my dream's sanctity

And sleep in the stillness
Of your heart
Until your soul returns to me

There sandy seems the golden sky
And golden seems the sandy plain.
No habitation meets the eye
Unless in the horizon rim,
Some halfway up the limestone wall,
That spot of black is not a stain
Or shadow, but a cavern hole,
Where someone used to climb and crawl
To rest from his besetting fears.
I see the callus on his soul
The disappearing last of him
And of his race starvation slim,
Oh years ago—ten thousand years.

The heart can think of no devotion
Greater than being shore to the ocean—
Holding the curve of one position,
Counting an endless repetition.

He halted in the wind, and—what was that
Far in the maples, pale, but not a ghost?
He stood there bringing March against his thought,
And yet too ready to believe the most.

“Oh, that’s the Paradise-in-bloom,” I said;
And truly it was fair enough for flowers
had we but in us to assume in march
Such white luxuriance of May for ours.

We stood a moment so in a strange world,
Myself as one his own pretense deceives;
And then I said the truth (and we moved on).
A young beech clinging to its last year’s leaves.