Classic Poem

An end is a happy end only:
What only was moves into what is,
Unbodied grows, but lasting.
And the matter is now alive,
Even by this beneficence of Yes
To No and No like angels made of nothing.

Science, the white heart of strangers,
Bleeds with an immaculate grief—
Impatient brotherhood,
Tired apostates of curiosity,
Creed of apostatizing.
Truth need be but dead afterworld
To those who've had enough,
The readers and the lookers-on—
As stars keep off, or to short minds
Night seems a less real time than day,
Not to be measured with or counted to
That quick self-evident sum of sun.

Have sleep and midnight warmth,
Where your scant eyes see failure,
Numbering the wakefullest page
The dark and frosty last.

An end is a happy end only.
And first the book's end comes,
The printed public leaves off reading.
Then open the small secret doors,
When none's there to read awrong.
Out runs happiness in a crowd,
The saving words and hours
That come too tragic-late for souls
Gifted with their own mercy:
Who spare themselves the joys
That would have darkened them
From the predaceous years.

Too orthodox maturity
For such heresy of child-remaining—
On these the dusty blight of books descends,
Weird, pundit babyhoods
Whose blinking vision stammers out the past
Like a big-lettered foetus-future.