The poet does not use poetry, but is at the service of poetry. To use it is to misuse it. - Denise Levertov

The roses tremble; oh, the sunflower's eye
Is opened wide in sad expectancy.
Westward and back the circling swallows fly,
The rooks' battalions dwindle near the hill.

That low pulsation in the east is war:
No bell now breaks the evening's silent dream.
The bloodless clarity of evening's sky
Betrays no whisper of the battle-scream.

Praise the invisible sun burning beyond the white cold sky, giving us light and the chimney's shadow.

There comes a time when only anger is love.