I think all writing is a disease. You can't stop it. - William Carlos Williams

Beautiful thing, my dove, unable and all who are windblown, touched by the fire and unable, a roar that (soundless) drowns the sense with its reiteration unwilling to lie in its bed and sleep and sleep, sleep in its dark bed. Summer! it is summer . — and still the roar in his mind is unabated

Падение, вызванное отчаянием,
И без достижений
Приводит к новому пробуждению:
Которое — возрождение отчаяния.

Чего мы не можем достичь,
Что запрещено нам любить,
Что потеряли мы в ожидании — За этим следует падение.

At our age the imagination
across the sorry facts
lifts us
to make roses
stand before thorns.
Sure
love is cruel
and selfish
and totally obtuse — at least, blinded by the light,
young love is.
But we are older,
I to love
and you to be loved,
we have,
no matter how,
by our wills survived
to keep
the jeweled prize
always
at our finger tips.
We will it so
and so it is
past all accident.