Can I ever write, a poem, to both recite - the song of my heart, and to recount - the epic of my might? I doubt... Can I ever compose such verse, in this solid dark, in this dominant night? I doubt... For I happen to be - a heap of cold, discarded ash - concealing the seeds of all revolts - inside. And, I happen to be A peaceful sea - carrying the roars of all storms - underneath its quiet sight. And, I am a frozen lake - hiding the flames of all faiths - beneath its lifeless face. Can I ever write - such poem? Can I ever compose such verse?"Nocturnal" (1955)
In a slight stroke of your hands, it is the whole world that I comprehend. In the mere thought of you, it is the entirety of eternity that I attend: flowing, nude, content. I stream, I shine, I rain. I am the heavens; I am all the stars; I am this Earth. I am also that golden thicket of wheat, expecting the clusters of scented seed, in the green lake of its joyous dance. I traverse you, like a lightening crossing the night. I blaze. And I then melt."In An Instant"
They smell your breath lest you have said: I love you. They smell your heart; These are strange times, my dear. They flog love at the roadblock. Let's hide love in the larder. In this crooked blind alley, as the chill descends they feed fires with logs of song and poetry Hazard not a thought: These are strange times, my dear. The man who knocks at your door in the noon of the night has come to kill the light. Let's hide light in the larder. There, butchers are posted in passageways with bloody chopping blocks and cleavers: These are strange times, my dear. They chop smiles off lips, and songs off the mouth: Let's hide joy in the larder."In This Blind Alley"