Which is the world? Of our two sleepings, which / Shall fall awake when cures and their itch / Raise up this red-eyed earth? - Dylan Thomas

The joy and function of poetry is, and was, the celebration of man, which is also the celebration of God.

Time passes. Listen. Time passes.
Come closer now.
Only you can hear the houses sleeping in the streets in the slow deep salt and silent black, bandaged night.

All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged, fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find.