Well, I'll go on reading--
I'll read-- what I'll do is I'll continue reading four or five
more early poems.
And then I'll go on to read some poems which are of the 1930s.
And then I'll read a few poems of the Spanish Civil War.
And then I'll read some later poems.
Here's another early poem, which is the sort of childhood--
reminiscence of childhood, really.
"My parents kept me from children
who were rough, who threw words like stones
and who wore torn clothes.
Their thighs showed through rags.
They ran in the street and climbed cliffs and stripped
by the country streams.
I feared more than tigers their muscles
like iron, their jerking hands, and their knees
tight on my arms.
I feared the thought course pointing
of those boys who copied my list behind me on the road.
They were life.
They sprang out behind hedges like dogs to bark at my world.
They threw mud while I looked the other way,
pretending to smile.
I long to forgive them, but they never smiled."