The Ballad Of Outward Living
And children still grow up with those
That know nothing, still grow up and die,
And everyone goes on about his business.
And bitter fruit grows big and sweet
And falls at night like dead birds on the
And lies there a few days, and rots away.
And still the wind blows on, over and
We fail to sense it, speaking some old
And feeling how our limbs tingle and
And highways still stretch out across the
And habitations spread with street-lights,
and pools, threatening, dried-out,
deathly . . .
For what is all this built, that won’t add
And yet increases still, beyond counting?
How can we laugh, then suddenly cry and
What benefit these grandiose games of
Which are ourselves, when we are still
And wander on without a search or goal?
What benefit even to speak of all of this?
Yet ‘Evening’, when we say it, still speaks
Running with sadness and with
Like dense honey oozing from the empty