Poem for Ones Who Know One When They See One

What W. H. Auden said “In Memory of W. B. Yeats,” not modified in the “guts” or on the blog: “For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives” so there it is, no one need worry. “Encore! Encore! More! More!” OK, ok, settle down; this is no time for pathos, but, “Wild nights – Wild Nights!”…