by Theodore Roethke
My wrath, where’s the edge
Of the fine shapely thought
That I carried so long
When so young, when so young
My rage, what’s to be
The soul’s privilege?
Will the heart eat the heart?
What’s to come? What’s to come?
O love, you who hear
The slow tick of time
In your sea-buried ear,
Tell me now, tell me now.
–from The Collected Poems of Theodore Roethke
Random House, Inc.