The Birth of Tragedy,

The Birth of Tragedy, 1954

And me happiest when I compose poems.Love, power, the huzza of battleAre something, are much;yet a poem includes them like a poolwater and reflection.In me, nature’s divided things—tree, mould on tree—have their fruition;I am their core. Let them swap,bandy, like a flame swerveI am their mouth; as a mouth I serve.

And I observe how the sensual mothsbig with odour and sunshinedart into the perilous shrubbery;or drop their visiting shadowsupon the garden I one year madeof flowering stone to be a footstoolfor the perfect gods:who, friends to the ascending orders,sustain all passionate meditationsand call down pardonsfor the insurgent blood.

A quiet madman, never far from tears,I lie like a slain thingunder the green air the treesinhabit, or rest upon a chairtowards which the inflammable airtumbles on many robins’ wings;noting how seasonablyleaf and blossom uncurland living things arrange their death,while someone from afar offblows birthday candles for the world.