His books were part of him. Each year of his life, it seemed, his books became more and more a part of him. This room, thirty by twenty feet, and the walls of shelves filled with books, had for him the murmuring of many voices. In the books of Herodotus, Tacitus, Rabelais, Thomas Browne, John Milton, and scores of others, he had found men of face and voice more real to him than many a man he had met for a smoke and a talk.

«عشقِ یک کارگر»

ﺑﺎﺭﻫﺎ ﺑﻪ ﺧﻮﺩﮐﺸﯽ ﻓﮑﺮ ﮐﺮﺩه‌ام
ﭼﺮﺍ ﮐﻪ ﻣﻦ ﯾﮏ ﮐﺎﺭﮔﺮ ﺳﺎﺩه‌ﺍﻡ
ﻭ ﺗﻮ ﺁﻥ ﺯﻧﯽ،
ﮐﻪ ﺩﻭﺳﺖ‌ﺩﺍﺭﺩ ﺷﻮﻫﺮﺵ ﭘﺰﺷﮏ ﺑﺎﺷﺪ.

ﺍﻣﺎ ﺑﺎﺯ ﻫﻢ ﺍﻫﻤﯿﺘﯽ نمی‌دﻫﻢ
ﻭ ﺣﺘﯽ ﻣﺤﮑﻢ‌ﺗﺮ ﺍﺯ ﻗﺒﻞ
ﺁﺟﺮﻫﺎ ﺭﺍ ﺑﺮ ﺩﯾﻮﺍﺭ ﻣﯽ‌ﭼﯿﻨﻢ.
ﺣﺘﯽ ﺯﯾﺒﺎﺗﺮ ﺍﺯ ﭘﯿﺶ ﺁﻭﺍﺯ می‌‌خوانم
ﻭﻗﺘﯽ ﮐﻪ ﻓﺮﻗﻮﻥِ ﻣﻼﺕ ﺭﺍ ﺩﺭ ﺩﺳﺖ می‌گیرم.

ﺍﻣﺎ ﻭﻗﺘﯽ ﮐﻪ ﻧﻮﺭ ﺧﻮﺭﺷﯿﺪ ﺩﺭﺳﺖ ﺑﻪ ﭼﺸﻤﺎﻧﻢ می‌خورد
ﺍﻣﺎ ﻭﻗﺘﯽ ﮐﻪ ﻧﺮﺩﺑﺎﻥ‌ﻫﺎ ﺯﯾﺮ ﭘﺎﻫﺎﯾﻢ ﻣﯽﻟﺮﺯﻧﺪ
ﺍﻣﺎ ﻭﻗﺘﯽ ﮐﻪ ﺣﺘﯽ ﺗﺮﺍﺯﻫﺎ ﻫﻢ ﺍﺷﺘﺒﺎه می‌کنند،
ﻣﻦ ﺑﺎﺯ ﻫﻢ
ﺩﻗﯿﻘﺎ ﺑﻪ ﺗﻮ ﻓﮑﺮ می‌کنم...

Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.