Sunday, December 29, 2013


Ginsberg dreamt of Whitman inside a country store. 
Alighieri with the mind of Aeneid did converse.
Milton had his Father; de Vere his royal Sun.
Plath, at the last, had a oven. 
Eliot had the Church, and Kerouac a bottle. 
Auden had his students (too much of them). 
Houseman his memories and Owen his trenches. 
Not even to write, to dream, but just to breathe -- 
For your sweet smell I would trade their muses all.

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