PRECEPT I.
In Things of moment, on thy self depend,
Nor trust too far thy Servant or thy Friend:
With private Views, thy Friend may promise fair,
And Servants very seldom prove sincere.
PRECEPT II.
What can be done, with Care perform to Day,
Dangers unthought-of will attend Delay;
Your distant Prospects all precarious are,
And Fortune is as fickle as she’ s fair.
PRECEPT III.
Parks and ponds are good by day;
I do not delight
In black acres of the night,
Nor my unseasoned step disturbs
The sleeps of trees or dreams of herbs.
The water understands
Civilization well;
It wets my foot, but prettily,
It chills my life, but wittily,
It is not disconcerted,
It is not broken-hearted:
Well used, it decketh joy,
Adorneth, doubleth joy:
Ill used, it will destroy,
In perfect time and measure
With a face of golden pleasure
Elegantly destroy.
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’ t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
Have but one God: thy knees were sore
If bent in prayer to three or four.
Adore no images save those
The coinage of thy country shows.
Take not the Name in vain. Direct
Thy swearing unto some effect.
Thy hand from Sunday work be held —
Work not at all unless compelled.
Honor thy parents, and perchance
Their wills thy fortunes may advance.
Kill not — death liberates thy foe
From persecution’ s constant woe.
Kiss not thy neighbor’ s wife. Of course
There’ s no objection to divorce.
A thing too perfect to be remembered:
stone beautiful only when wet.
* * *
Blinded by light or black cloth —
so many ways
not to see others suffer.
* * *
Too much longing:
it separates us
like scent from bread,
rust from iron.
* * *
From very far or very close —
the most resolute folds of the mountain are gentle.
Psychoanalysis
always looks for the egg
in a basket
that has been lost.
* * *
I sample sin as if it were
the beginning of well-being.
* * *
I don't like Paradise
as they probably don't have obsessions there.
* * *
If God absolves me
he always does so
for insufficient
evidence.
The poet is a man who feigns
And feigns so thoroughly, at last
He manages to feign as pain
The pain he really feels,
And those who read what once he wrote
Feel clearly, in the pain they read,
Neither of the pains he felt,
Only a pain they cannot sense.
And thus, around its jolting track
There runs, to keep our reason busy,
The circling clockwork train of ours
That men agree to call a heart.
The last line should strike like a lover’ s complaint.
You should never see it coming.
And you should never hear the end of it.
Fate piles up
On the bloody Norman shore.
If you must swim there
Swim on your back.
