An Artist, A Man, A Failure, Must

A Wind Has Blown The Rain Away And Blown The Sky Away And All The Leaves Away, And The Trees Stand. I Think, I Too, Have Known Autumn Too Long.

They Believe In Christ And Longfellow, Both Dead

And Still The Mad Magnificent Herald Spring Assembles Beauty From Forgetfulness With The Wild Trump Of April:witchery Of Sound And Odour Drives The Wingless Thing Man Forth In The Bright Air.

Time Cannot Children,poets,lovers Tell- Measure Imagine,mystery,a Kiss -not Though Mankind Would Rather Know Than Feel

You Have Played, (i Think) And Broke The Toys You Were Fondest Of, And Are A Little Tired Now; Tired Of Things That Break, And— Just Tired. So Am I.