Good God, If Our Civilization Were To

In The War To Come Correspondents Would Assume Unheard Of Importance, Plunging Through Flame To Feed The Public Its Little Gobbets Of Dehydrated Excrement.

For A Time They Confronted Each Other Like Two Mute Unspeaking Forts.

No, My Secrets Are Of The Grave And Must Be Kept. And This Is How I Sometimes Think Of Myself, As A Great Explorer Who Has Discovered Some Extraordinary Land From Which He Can Never Return To Give His Knowledge To The World: But The Name Of This Land Is Hell.

Fear Ringed By Doubt Is My Eternal Moon.

There Was No Mistaking, Even In The Uncertain Light, The Hand, Half Crabbed, Half Generous, And Wholly Drunken, Of The Consul Himself, The Greek E's, The Flying Buttresses Of D's, The T's Like Lonely Wayside Crosses Save Where They Crucified An Entire Word.