But I, From Poetry's Skies, Plunge Into

In Our Language Rhyme Is A Barrel. A Barrel Of Dynamite. The Line Is A Fuse. The Line Smoulders To The End And Explodes; And The Town Is Blown Sky-high In A Stanza.

If You Wish, I Shall Grow Irreproachably Tender: Not A Man, But A Cloud In Trousers!

There’s No Grandfatherly Fondness In Me, There Are No Gray Hairs In My Soul! Shaking The World With My Voice And Grinning, I Pass You By, - Handsome, Twentytwoyearold.

Comrade Life, Let Us March Faster, March Faster Through What's Left Of The Five-year Plan.

Listen! If Stars Are Lit It Means There Is Someone Who Needs It, It Means Someone Wants Them To Be, That Someone Deems Those Specks Of Spit Magnificent!