Report, if you have a problem with this page“ StillIn the fall, I believe again in poetryif nothing else it isa movement of the mind.Summers ball togetherinto sticky lumps,spring evenings are glass beads from one mouldfor standard-size youth,winter a smooth heaviness, not even cold.But the mind trembleshere, on the brinkthe mind tremblesthere is life, after all,there is life, stillunbelief left. ”
