An ode.it reads:
I would write accurately to you of many things
I would draw them each in lines, with black and white
Set against one another in wood-cut relief
In columns and rows and concentric rings.
These letters you see, are they then this clarity
I would have you examine them one by one by one
And see if these really are the words I wrote
The words I set down all so carefully.
I would have these etchings come themselves alive
Of themselves; not as though it was my inspiration
But as though my inspiration was in them and was them
I would if I could, If I could only so strive.
I would make them all glorious things, one by one
Each a varigate coat of pigment and breathing-space
So that the senses would reel with grief and shock
And at a beauty so curious become undone.
Would I make them words, or melodies man sings
Would I draw them out like a breath on a cool day
And intone them long so that the air shimmers
Shimmers where the music then rings?
Or instead would they become an unheard ode
That you carry in your heart through winters and springs
And then no words are needed at all to see
Would I craft them in such a mode?
Words then fail, and I return to handwritten rings
Which are beautiful for just being and being still
Would I never suggest a single word or phrase
Would I then write to you, write to you of many things?