Here is the full poem:
**Each Thing I Do Rush Through
So I Can Start Something Else**
There is an art of this life that must
be made in the midst. When all
the details must come out sharp at first.
No blurred edges on our work -
or even an inkling
of a blurry edge: all the parts together
making a form we can handle
as if it really belonged to somebody who
could look right back where they had always known
it really came from in their hands. All our work
seems in some ways to turn
on the axis between a wish to keep doing
and another to stop now and know what we may have.
So it may take time even just to hurry in the right way. That may
be the first great mystery at heart: whether there can, indeed,
be such hurrying at all to keep from hurrying and to live a long time
all at once with artfulness that knows
the whole way. In any case a person
has one great life only to create - and to let others
be as creative as we were: this life - in this only and once lived-in hour.