You can’t just decide to adopt a festive tone
Or elegiac or libidinous
And then choose a form coincident with it
You can’t just match up matter and manner
Like the sides of a jelly sandwich
Hence the folly of binary thought
The folly of calculating means to ends
Here then is our sorrow
For the great work the finished work
Exhibits just such a decorum
And yet every creation fulfills a commission
More or less imposed
The most monumental works
The least personal in origin
So as usual we despond to apparition
As if a sunset or a bluebird or a poem
Had succeeded in success
And managed to defeat failure
And so it becomes a question of method
But one doesn’t choose the psychological pressure
And even in the economy of ripe expression
Beauty does not grow of will