A pear should come to the table popped with juice,Ripened in warmth and served in warmth. On termsLike these, autumn beguiles the fatalist.

A poem is a meteor.

Children picking up our bonesWill never know that these were onceAs quick as foxes on the hill;

A change of style is a change of meaning.

From oriole to crow, note the declineIn music. Crow is realist. But, then,Oriole, also, may be realist.

We say God and the imagination are one . . .How high that highest candle lights the dark.

Poetry is a finikin thing of airThat lives uncertainly and not for longYet radiantly beyond much lustier blurs.