Talk

New words are my desire, new verbs to scan, Chaste paradigms that never sold themselves, And adverbs from the leaf-talk of the elves, With dog-faced articles, unknown to man; Low-pattered syllables that trot like sheep Round out my mouth and mind with holy peace, And I have found redemption and surcease In Babylonian nouns like bulls asleep.

Who can be hopeless saying “Bethmacoon”? “Aleery” is an opiate for all pain. —And I shall swim beneath the Idiot’s Moon, And climb the crags that tower in my brain To feel the kreeth of Morning touch my lips, Where Ocean plays with his smaranthian ships.