enough to wake
and stretch
and dress and
emerge—
not with great
exhilaration, but at least
with nothing specific
to resist.
How much of our
art—how many poems
have wished this?
How many of their lines,
burning in their
earnestness,
have yearned,
like us, for this great
and useless beauty—
for nothing like
purpose, skill, or
magnificence—
to be organized
and named
by nothing but
the date,
and justified
merely by declaring
they exist?
