The Art Of Poetry

To gaze at a river made of time and

And remember Time is another river.

To know we stray like a riverand our faces vanish like water.

To feel that waking is another dreamthat dreams of not dreaming and that the deathwe fear in our bones is the deaththat every night we call a dream.

To see in every day and year a symbolof all the days of man and his years,and convert the outrage of the yearsinto a music, a sound, and a symbol.

To see in death a dream, in the sunseta golden sadness—such is poetry,humble and immortal, poetry,returning, like dawn and the sunset.

Sometimes at evening there's a facethat sees us from the deeps of a mirror.

Art must be that sort of mirror,disclosing to each of us his face.

They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,wept with love on seeing Ithaca,humble and green.

Art is that Ithaca,a green eternity, not wonders.

Art is endless like a river flowing,passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the sameinconstant Heraclitus, who is the sameand yet another, like the river flowing.