I Glory In This World Of Men

Under The Harvest Moon, When The Soft Silver Drips Shimmering Over The Garden Nights, Death, The Gray Mocker, Comes And Whispers To You As A Beautiful Friend Who Remembers.

I Remember The Chillicothe Ballplayers Grappling The Long Island Ball Players In A Sixteen-inning Game Ended By Darkness. And The Shoulders Of The Chillicothe Players Were A Red Smoke Against The Sundown And The Shoulders Of The Rock Island Players Were A Yellow Smoke Against The Sundown. And The Umpire's Voice Was Hoarse Calling Balls And Strikes And Outs And The Umpire's Throat Fought In The Dust For A Song.

Nearly All The Best Things That Came To Me In Life Have Been Unexpected, Unplanned By Me.

Men Of Ideas Vanish When Freedom Vanishes.

Poetry Is A Shuffling Of Boxes Of Illusions Buckled With A Strap Of Facts.