The poem
Poetry, music, I have loved, and yet Because of those new dead That come into my soul and escape Confusion of the bed, Or those begotten or unbegotten Perning in a band, I bend my body to the spade Or grope with a dirty hand.
Or those begotten or unbegotten, For I would not recall Some that being unbegotten Are not individual, But copy some one action, Moulding it of dust or sand, I bend my body to the spade Or grope with a dirty hand.
An old ghost's thoughts are lightning, To follow is to die; Poetry and music I have banished, But the stupidity Of root, shoot, blossom or clay Makes no demand. I bend my body to the spade Or grope with a dirty hand.