(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

his Love Song

. . .
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

. . .

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball?
. . .

If you say so...

What you do, the way you think, makes you beautiful.

from "Is He Living or Is He Dead?"

"A child has a caged bird which it loves, but thoughtlessly neglects. The bird pours out its song unheard and unheeded, but in time, hunger and thirst assail the creature and its song grows plaintive and feeble and finally ceases.

The bird dies.

The child comes, and is smitten to the heart with remorse. Then with bitter tears and lamentations, it calls its mates and they bury the bird and, with elaborate pomp and the tenderest grief, without knowing, poor things, that it isn't children only who starve poets to death and then spend enough on their funerals and monuments to have kept them alive and made them easy and comfortable. . ."