Stuck with It

I think of Phelps Putnam and his electric rose,
How in a rage he stripped down sense like a gun:
How hunting sailors and finding sea, Hart Crane
Made good, the Hartford Group kept Stevens chaste
And Williams’ MD purged the Passaic waste.

All excess of the exacerbated heart
Called them, and whether they let spirit burst
An overrunning engine, kept muse and man apart
Or won and wounded both like Robert Frost,

There lives now only joy that lives so spared
For vision and gift should bloom to a laser rose
That spends particular light on perfect air
To no end but ours before it dies.