I asked myself, "to whom should I dedicate my poems?"
And I thought, "to the Author of the profound misery of the world".
Not the misery of war, hunger or injustice, -
These are initiatory and do not so much matter
Since nothing is more abominable than satiety and comfort -
But the misery of the unsatisfied heart,
The misery of the living life
Whose flame is ever-renewed suffering.
And I do not know that it is not the same thing
I offer these poems also to the Author of joy:
The intensity of joy that is in all life,
The joy of the serpent devouring the dove
And the dove's ecstasy exactly equal,
The joy of the plant sun-voyaging into flower,
The joy of the worm dark-cankering the bud,
Likewise these fragments the blown wrecks of air,
His invisible desire, re-offered to the Creator.