Faults In English Prose Derive Not So

Kill If You Must, But Never Hate: Man Is But Grass And Hate Is Blight, The Sun Will Scorch You Soon Or Late, Die Wholesome Then, Since You Must Fight

The Sap Of Spring In The Young Wood A-stir Will Celebrate With Green The Mother, And Every Song-bird Shout Awhile For Her; But We Are Gifted, Even In November Rawest Of Seasons, With So Huge A Sense Of Her Nakedly Worn Magnificence We Forget Cruelty And Past Betrayal, Heedless Of Where The Next Bright Bolt May Fall.

If I Were A Young Man With My Bones Full Of Marrow, Oh, If I Were A Bold Young Man Straight As An Arrow, I'd Store Up No Virtue For Heaven's Distant Plain, I'd Live At Ease As I Did Please And Sin Once Again.

I Don't Really Feel My Poems Are Mine At All. I Didn't Create Them Out Of Nothing. I Owe Them To My Relations With Other People.

There's A Cool Web Of Language Winds Us In, Retreat From Too Much Joy Or Too Much Fear: We Grow Sea-green At Last And Coldly Die In Brininess And Volubility.