I no more wrote than read that book which is The self I am, half hidden as it is From one and all who see within a kiss The lounging formless blackne… - Delmore Schwartz

Where the light is, and each thing clear, Separate from all others, standing in its place, I drink the time and touch whatever's near, <p> And hope for day when the whole world has that face: For what assures her present every year? In dark accidents the mind's sufficient grace.

What will become of you and me
(This is the school in which we learn ...)
Besides the photo and the memory?
(... that time is the fire in which we burn.)

Avid its rush, that reeling blaze!
Where is my father and Eleanor?
Not where are they now, dead seven years,
But what they were then?
No more? No more?

How the false truths of the years of youth have passed! Have passed at full speed like trains which never stopped There where I stood and waited, hardly aware, How little I knew, or which of them was the one To mount and ride to hope or where true hope arrives.