. . . is not to care

To use the thing,
wring out the being
on pretense of your loving;
Then shun the shell,
the dried up well
when nothing's left for drinking;
And blame it first
for unquenched thirst
instead of blame your leaching;
Like eating seeds
for hating weeds
and time required for sowing;
Yet eating 'till
you're hungry still
and hate the plants not growing . . .

. . . is not to care.

. . . is not the rare
and cultivated loving
of real friendship.

For care's the seed
and love the reed
grown from the ground befriending;
And when reeds die
new seeds fall nigh
and prove care-full beginnings.

But you ate seeds,
your passion--reeds
of nothing worth devouring
now that famine's come.