The Ballad Of Outward Living
And children still grow up with those
        deep eyes
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
        ground
And lies there a few days, and rots away.

And still the wind blows on, over and
        over
We fail to sense it, speaking some old
        words
And feeling how our limbs tingle and
        grow tired.

And highways still stretch out across the
        grass,
And habitations spread with street-lights,
        trees
and pools, threatening, dried-out,
        deathly . . .

For what is all this built, that won’t add
        up
And yet increases still, beyond counting?
How can we laugh, then suddenly cry and
        pale?

What benefit these grandiose games of
        ours,
Which are ourselves, when we are still
        alone
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
        much,
Running with sadness and with
        wretchedness

Like dense honey oozing from the empty
        comb.