Signs are taken for wonders. 'We would see a sign!' The word within a word, unable to speak a word, Swaddled with darkness.

Here I am, an old man in a dry month, Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.

Weave the wind. I have no ghosts, An old man in a draughty house Under a windy knob.

Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different.