My Poetry Has Become The

Dame Poverty Gave Me My Name, And Pain Godfathered Me.

We Were Not Made To Eternally Weep.

Not For Myself I Make This Prayer, But For This Race Of Mine That Stretches Forth From Shadowed Places Dark Hands For Bread And Wine.

Lord, I Fashion Dark Gods, Too, Daring Even To Give You Dark Despairing Features

What Is Last Year's Snow To Me, Last Year's Anything? The Tree Budding Yearly Must Forget How Its Past Arose Or Set