But Give Thanks, At Least, That You

She Tells Her Love While Half Asleep, In The Dark Hours, With Half-words Whispered Low: As Earth Stirs In Her Winter Sleep And Puts Out Grass And Flowers Despite The Snow, Despite The Falling Snow.

A Perfect Poem Is Impossible. Once It Had Been Written, The World Would End. Immature Poets Imitate; Mature Poets Steal.

When A Dream Is Born In You With A Sudden Clamorous Pain, When You Know The Dream Is True And Lovely, With No Flaw Nor Stain, O Then, Be Careful, Or With Sudden Clutch You'll Hurt The Delicate Thing You Prize So Much.

When The Immense Drugged Universe Explodes In A Cascade Of Unendurable Colour And Leaves Us Gasping Naked, This Is No More Than The Ectasy Of Chaos: Hold Fast, With Both Hands, To That Royal Love Which Alone, As We Know Certainly, Restores Fragmentation Into True Being. Ecstasy Of Chaos

For I Now Realize That What Overcame Me That Evening Was A Sudden Awareness Of The Power Of Intuition, The Supra-logic That Cuts Out All Routine Processes Of Thought And Leaps Straight From Problem To Answer.