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And a short poem, if
I can find it here.

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It's called "The
Secret of Poetry."

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"When I was lonely,
I thought of death.

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When I thought of
death, I was lonely.

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I suppose this
era will continue.

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I shall enter each gray
morning, delighted by frost,

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which is death, and the trees
that stand alone, and mist.

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When I met my
wife, I was lonely.

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Our child in her body is lonely.

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I suppose this era
will go on and on.

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Mornings-- I kiss my
wife's cold lips, nights--

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her body, dripping with mist.

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This is the era that fascinates.

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I suppose you are secretly
lonely, thinking of death,

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thinking of love.

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I'd like, please, to
leave when you're still

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just one cold flower,
whose beauty would

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leave you inconsolable all day.

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The secret of
poetry is cruelty."