And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.

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

Those Blessed Structures, Plot And Rhyme-- Why Are They No Help To Me Now I Want To Make Something Imagined, Not Recalled?

I Was Overcome With An Attack Of Pathological Enthusiasm.

It Is Night, And It Is Vanity, And Age Blackens The Heart Of Adam. Fear, The Yellow Chirper, Beaks Its Cage.

I Want To Apologize For Plaguing You With So Many Telephone Calls Last November And December. When The 'enthusiasm' Is Coming On Me It Is Accompanied By A Feverish Reaching Out To My Friends. After Its Over I Wince And Wither.