A Great Many People Now

I'm Dying, But Otherwise I'm In Very Good Health.

White As A Winding Sheet, Masks Blowing Down The Street: Moscow, Paris London, Vienna - All Are Undone. The Drums Of Death Are Mumbling, Rumbling, And Tumbling, Mumbling, Rumbling, And Tumbling, The World's Floors Are Quaking, Crumbling And Breaking.

The Busy Chatter Of The Heat Shrilled Like A Parakeet; And Shuddering At The Noonday Light The Dust Lay Dead And White As Powder On A Mummy's Face, Or Fawned With Simian Grace Round Booths With Many A Hard Bright Toy And Wooden Brittle Joy: The Cap And Bells Of Time The Clown That, Jangling, Whistled Down Young Cherubs Hidden In The Guise Of Every Bird That Flies; And Star-bright Masks For Youth To Wear, Lest Any Dream That Fare Bright Pilgrim Past Our Ken, Should See Hints Of Reality.

My Poems Are Hymns Of Praise To The Glory Of Life.

The Last Faint Spark In The Self-murdered Heart, The Wounds Of The Sad Uncomprehending Dark, The Wounds Of The Baited Bear,-- The Blind And Weeping Bear Whom The Keepers Beat On His Helpless Flesh . . . The Tears Of The Hunted Hare.