Love's Ship Has Foundered On The Rocks

Formerly I Believed Books Were Made Like This: A Poet Came, Lightly Opened His Lips, And The Inspired Fool Burst Into Song – If You Please! But It Seems, Before They Can Launch A Song, Poets Must Tramp For Days With Callused Feet, And The Sluggish Fish Of The Imagination Flounders Softly In The Slush Of The Heart. And While, With Twittering Rhymes, They Boil A Broth Of Loves And Nightingales, The Tongueless Street Merely Writhes For Lack Of Something To Shout Or Say

Too Slow, The Wagons Of Years, The Oxen Of Days--too Glum. Our God Is The God Of Speed, Our Heart--our Battle-drum.

On The Pavement Of My Trampled Soul The Steps Of Madmen Weave The Prints Of Rude Crude Words.

There’s No Grandfatherly Fondness In Me, There Are No Gray Hairs In My Soul! Shaking The World With My Voice And Grinning, I Pass You By, - Handsome, Twentytwoyearold.

Art Must Not Be Concentrated In Dead Shrines Called Museums. Lt Must Be Spread Everywhere – On The Streets, In The Trams, Factories, Workshops, And In The Workers' Homes.