He spoke of dissonance and belonging as if they were quiet doves rising in the air. He had somehow tamed the force of life. In his hands it was the white lily, the flowering rod, containing within its self all American identifications as potential and possibility. (H.D.’s lily, not the dissonant discoveries of W.C. Williams.) The plenitude of memory had become the crafted poem, and yet it was not, did not pretend to be, the whole story. He had some secret, that one, the magically outward and displayed grace of the Poet. But this his difference: he was not one who had no time to write of all he saw and knew, one who must tell all lest life ebb before the telling; nay, he was one who folded and unfolded the secrets. He was the bountiful Keeper, the knower, a version of the Singer and the Martyr in the tower of song. That, the sublimated artistic masculinity.

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