It is, it is the voice Of the Fourth Person Singular It is the voice Within the voice of the turtle It is the face Behind the face of the race Poetry is made of night thoughts If it can tear itself away from illusion It will not be disowned before the dawn Poetry is made by evaporating The liquid laughter of youth Poetry is a book of light at night Dispersing clouds of unknowing It hears the whisper of elephants And sees how many angels dance On the head of a pin And how many angels and devils dance On the head of a phallus It is a humming a keening A laughing, a sighing at dawn A wild soft laughter It is the final gestalt Of the immagination Poetry should be emotion Recollected in emotion