It Is Night, And It Is Vanity,

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone

I Saw The Spiders Marching Through The Air, Swimming From Tree To Tree That Mildewed Day In Latter August When The Hay Came Creaking To The Barn. But Where The Wind Is Westerly, Where Gnarled November Makes The Spiders Fly Into The Apparitions Of The Sky, They Purpose Nothing But Their Ease And Die Urgently Beating East To Sunrise And The Sea.

But Sometimes Everything I Write With The Threadbare Art Of My Eye Seems A Snapshot

Poetry Is Not The Record Of An Event: It Is An Event.

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