All That I Am Hangs

Now No One Will Listen To Songs. The Prophesied Days Have Begun. Latest Poem Of Mine, The World Has Lost Its Wonder, Don't Break My Heart, Don't Ring Out.

You Will Hear Thunder And Remember Me, And Think: She Wanted Storms.

We Aged A Hundred Years, And This Happened In A Single Hour: The Short Summer Had Already Died, The Body Of The Ploughed Plains Smoked.

And This Tenderness Was Not Like That Which A Certain Poet At The Beginning Of The Century Called True And, For Some Reason, Quiet. No, Not At All— It Rang Out, Like The First Waterfall, It Crunched Like The Crust Of Bluish Ice And It Prayed With A Swanlike Voice, And It Broke Down Right Before Our Eyes.

I Go Forth To Seek To Seek And Claim The Lovely Magic Garden Where Grasses Softly Sigh And Muses Speak.