Let only the young come, Says the sea. Let them kiss my face And hear me. I am the last word And I tell Where storms and stars come from.

My name is Truth and I am the most elusive captivein the universe.

What of the Athenian last year on whose bosoma committee hung a medal to say to the worldhere is a champion heavyweight poet?He stood on a two-masted schoonerand flung his medal far out on the sea bosom.“And why not?Has anybody ever given the ocean a medal?Who of the poets equals the music of the sea?And where is a symbol of the peopleunless it is the sea?

I cannot tell you now;When the wind's drive and whirlBlow me along no longer,And the wind's a whisper at last -Maybe I'll tell you thensome other time.

When the rose’s flash to the sunsetReels to the wrack and the twist,And the rose is a red bygone,When the face I love is goingAnd the gate to the end shall clang,And it’s no use to beckon or say, “So long”—Maybe I’ll tell you then—some other time.

And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers. Go running back to dust and mist.

Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.

Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable.