I take a pencil and begin to write

And will my defeated heart into flight:

It seeks and tests the newborn airs of spring;

But frightened it recoils back within.

The mind and the heart – they are never one!

One seems the moon and the other the sun:

One has layers and layers of being;

The other different ways of seeing;

In one matter, they’re affected the same,

When one has a limp, the other goes lame.

Poesy takes wing at times from burnt hope,

When the mind thinks with a million’s scope,

Crystalizing with the breaking of the heart,

Into words that represent tortured art.