If Millions Are Born Millions

You Making Haste On Decay: Not Blameworthy; Life Is Good, Be It Stubbornly Long Or Suddenly A Mortal Splendor: Meteors Are Not Needed Less Than Mountains: Shine, Perishing Republic.

He Is Strong And Pain Is Worse To The Strong, Incapacity Is Worse.

Death's A Fierce Meadowlark: But To Die Having Made / Something More Equal To The Centuries / Than Muscle And Bone, Is Mostly To Shed Weakness.

I Hate My Verses, Every Line, Every Word. Oh Pale And Brittle Pencils Ever To Try One Grass-blade's Curve, Or The Throat Of One Bird That Clings To Twig, Ruffled Against White Sky. Oh Cracked And Twilight Mirrors Ever To Catch One Color, One Glinting Flash, Of The Splendor Of Things.

If Millions Are Born Millions Must Die.