I Am Not Eccentric. It's

But I Saw The Little-ant Men As They Ran Carrying The World's Weight Of The World's Filth And The Filth In The Heart Of Man-- Compressed Till Those Lusts And Greeds Had A Greater Heat Than That Of The Sun.

The Poet Is A Brother Speaking To A Brother Of "a Moment Of Their Other Lives" - A Moment That Had Been Buried Beneath The Dust Of The Busy World.

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.

When We Think Of Cruelty, We Must Try To Remember The Stupidity, The Envy, The Frustration From Which It Has Arisen.

The Poet Speaks To All Men Of That Other Life Of Theirs That They Have Smothered And Forgotten.