Pity The Planet, All Joy

In The End, There Is No End.

In The End, Every Hypochondriac Is His Own Prophet.

Wallowing In This Bloody Sty, I Cast For Fish That Pleased My Eye

The Scythers, Time And Death, Helmed Locusts, Move Upon The Tree Of Breath

Most Poetry Is Very Formal, But When A Modern Poet Is Formal He Gets More Attention For It Than Old Poets Did.