Rravenhha

we do not belong in boxes and bags and books or words, and we do not sit contently in wordsworth and shakespeare and blake, burns, and brownings or in the cold stiff bones of raleigh's of long ago; no-- we infect, detect, and re-select a virus--a disease, a germ in every verse and line; the first signs of foolish waitings under bridges and scolding parents and melodrama and nothing to signify at all yet-- we are the blood of nations and the heart of men and the love of every rhetorist and sentimist to come; we dance through the ballrooms of the age and chat with higher minds we shake hands with heros and the homeless, dirty type