DIARISTS

They catalogue their minutes: Now, now, now,

Is Actual, amid the fugitive;

Take ink and pen ( they say ) for that is how

We snare this flying life, and make it live.

So to their little pictures, and they sieve

Their happinesses: fields turned by the plough,

The afterglow that summer sunsets give,

The razor concave of a great ship's bow.

O gallant instinct, folly for men's mirth!

Type cannot burn and sparkle on the page.

No glittering ink can make this written word

Shine clear enough to speak the noble rage

And instancy of life. All sonnets blurred

The sudden mood of truth that gave them birth.