With Out Some Kind Of

Here I Am, An Old Man In A Dry Month, Being Read To By A Boy, Waiting For Rain.

Dante And Shakespeare Divide The World Between Them. There Is No Third.

At The Still Point Of The Turning World. Neither Flesh Nor Fleshless; Neither From Nor Towards; At The Still Point, There The Dance Is.

A Cold Coming We Had Of It, Just The Worst Time Of The Year For A Journey, And Such A Long Journey: The Ways Deep And The Weather Sharp, The Very Dead Of Winter.

Sometimes Things Become Possible If We Want Them Bad Enough.