Imagination, The Traitor Of The Mind, Has

Well: The Day Is A Poem But Too Much Like One Of Jeffers's, Crusted With Blood And Barbaric Omens Painful To Excess, Inhuman As A Hawk's Cry.

Only The Drum Is Confident, It Thinks The World Has Not Changed

Imagination, The Traitor Of The Mind, Has Taken My Solitude And Slain It.

It Is Only A Little Planet, But How Beautiful It Is.

This Wild Swan Of A World Is No Hunter's Game.