Now remember courage, go to the door,Open it and see whether coiled on the bedOr cringing by the wall, a savage beastMaybe with golden hair, with deep eyesLike a bearded spider on a sunlit floorWill snarl-and man can never be alone.
I am not ridiculing verbal mechanisms, dreams, or repressions as origins of poetry; all three of them and more besides may have a great deal to do with it.
Row after row with strict impunity The headstones yield their names to the element, The wind whirrs without recollection.
So the dubbed conceit Played nursery of cheat To clear the I of sleet.
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