I was born to be a metaphor; br Darwin, embarrassed, did not talk of me; br I did not fit into his scheme of things; I, br knowing secrets of the tears of things, br while he used his fine mind br (which is, so obviously, beyond the physical) br to deny that world, the metaphysical.. br br To be a metaphor br you need to know your place; br stay around too long, you lose br that vital force; no one believes br in the unbelievable – when there’s no mystery, br that’s the end of metaphor for man. br br Better choose a quiet place, br some corner of a foreign field br only to be found in mind, br do the necessary – a few dry leaves and sticks br to lay false trail – and the semblance of a nest; you, br a place apart.. br br The desert, then, was easier; Egypt understood; br the sun rose warm br on the eggshell of pure thought; br Greece, appreciative, then found a name for me; br a whole race followed in my rise; br Rome was, how to put it, unoriginal; br America called a dry town, in an arid zone, after me; br may yet know me, nested in my cruellest magnificence, br ash and twisted steel and concrete, office equipment; br I a metaphor, awaiting a new birth.