Henry hates the world. What the world to Henry <br />did will not bear thought. <br />Feeling no pain, <br />Henry stabbed his arm and wrote a letter <br />explaining how bad it had been <br />in this world. <br /> <br />Old yellow, in a gown <br />might have made a difference, 'these lower beauties', <br />and chartreuse could have mattered <br /> <br />"Kyoto, Toledo, <br />Benares—the holy cities— <br />and Cambridge shimmering do not make up <br />for, well, the horror of unlove, <br />nor south from Paris driving in the Spring <br />to Siena and on . . ." <br /> <br />Pulling together Henry, somber Henry <br />woofed at things. <br />Spry disappointments of men <br />and vicing adorable children <br />miserable women, Henry mastered, Henry <br />tasting all the secret bits of life.<br /><br />John Berryman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dream-song-74-henry-hates-the-world-what-the-wor/