What Are Days For? Days Are Where

It Becomes Still More Difficult To Find
words At Once True And Kind,
or Not Untrue And Not Unkind.

I Am Awakened Each Dawn Increasingly To Fear.

The Trees Are Coming Into Leaf Like Something Almost Being Said; The Recent Buds Relax And Spread, Their Greenness Is A Kind Of Grief. Is It That They Are Born Again And We Grow Old? No, They Die Too. Their Yearly Trick Of Looking New Is Written Down In Rings Of Grain. Yet Still The Unresting Castles Thresh In Fullgrown Thickness Every May. Last Year Is Dead, They Seem To Say, Begin Afresh, Afresh, Afresh.

Here No Elsewhere Underwrites My Existence.

All The Unhurried Day / Your Mind Lay Open Like A Drawer Of Knives.