I fear, when inspiration comes too quickly,
'Twere better spread thin; saving some small
Measure of grace for my remaining years.
But since we two are met again, I have not got
The time for tears, or smiles or living, even;
Only for expression. So, today, I think,
Finding myself prolific with these rhymes,
Like Keats, yet unlike Keats, I too, have fears:
That if, as red blood from a severed artery,
Beauty pours too quickly, it soon ends.

If this be true, then hear! I cry aloud
To that most holy nucleus of life
For death. Oh, free me now... for even lifeless,
See how slowly dries the clay!

And listen... you who gave my soul its wings,
Hear how my mind hovers far above us;
Taking delight in jagged edges, luminous
Nebulae and the small ticking sounds of creatures!
Let me but drink the hemlock of release, then
Deep in the little field, find everlasting peace...
And my poor fancy burdened, nevermore with
Black is black and white is white and
Two and two is four... leave off, poesy!
I rest in flight among these Myriad impressions.