Do As You Like With

The Inmost Spirit Of Poetry, In Other Words, Is At Bottom, In Every Recorded Case, The Voice Of Pain – And The Physical Body, So To Speak, Of Poetry, Is The Treatment By Which The Poet Tries To Reconcile That Pain With The World.

The Gash In Its Throat Was Shocking, But Not Pathetic.

This House Has Been Far Out At Sea All Night, The Woods Crashing Through Darkness, The Booming Hills, Winds Stampeding The Fields Under The Window Floundering Black Astride And Blinding Wet Till Day Rose; Then Under An Orange Sky The Hills Had New Places, And Wind Wielded Blade-light, Luminous Black And Emerald, Flexing Like The Lens Of A Mad Eye.

But Who Is Stronger Than Death? Me , Evidently .

The Jaws' Hooked Clamp And Fangs Not To Be Changed At This Date; A Life Subdued To Its Instrument.