Amory took to writing poetry on spring afternoons, in the gardens of the big estates near Princeton, while swans made effective atmosphere in the artificial pools, and slow clouds sailed harmoniously above the willow. May came too soon, and suddenly unable to bear walls, he wandered the campus at all hours through starlight and rain.

Here, Earth-born, over the lilt of the water,Lisping its music and bearing a burden of light,Bosoming day as a laughing and radiant daughter…Here we may whisper unheard, unafraid of the night.Walking alone…was it splendor, or what, we were bound with?Deep in the time when summer lets down her hair?Shadows we loved and the patterns they covered the ground withTapestries, mystical, faint in the breathless air.

For this is wisdom-- to love and live,To take what fate or the gods may give,To ask no question, to make no prayer, To kiss the lips and caress the hair,Speed passion's ebb as we greet its flow,To have and to hold, and, in time-- let go.

You combed Third Avenue last yearFor some small gift that was not too dear,Like a candy cane or a worn out truss,To give to a loving friend like usYou'd found gold eggs for such wealthy hicksAs the Edsel Fords and the Pittsburgh FricksThe Andy Mellons, the Teddy ShontsThe Coleman T. and Pierre dupontsBut not one gift to brighten our homeSo I'm giving you back your Goddamn poem.

Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you - like music to the musician or Marxism to the communist - or else it is nothing, an empty, formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.

Poetry is dying first. It'll be absorbed into prose sooner or later.