“I avoid the looming visitor, Flee him adroitly around corners, Hating him, wishing him well; Lest if he confront me I be forced to say what is in no wise true: That he is welcome; that I am unoccupied; And forced to sit while the potted roses wilt in the crate or the sonnet cools Bending a respectful nose above such dried philosophies As have hung in wreaths from the rafters of my house since I was a child. Some trace of kindliness in this, no doubt, There may be. But not enough to keep a bird alive. There is a flaw amounting to a fissure In such behaviour.”
Book:Collected Poems
