The nightingales, whose tender, taut-bound hearts
Express the very essences of art,
World-rubbed, blast-framed, dull melancholic throbbed,
Storm-cocked, swept through, plumbed time, persistent torn,
Trill not triumphant in that rank and restless air,
Defiance-dredged and moan-meandering:
No – sing agonized and inward blisses,
A thousand thank-exuding kisses. Art should be
The exhalation of humility.
Poems