In A Poem The Excitement Has To

Poetry Is All Nouns And Verbs.

Of The Crow-blue Mussel Shells, One Keeps Adjusting The Ash Heaps; Opening And Shutting Itself Like An Injured Fan.

The Prey Of Fear, He, Always Curtailed, Extinguished, Thwarted By The Dusk, Work Partly Done, Says To The Alternating Blaze, "again The Sun! Anew Each Day; And New And New And New, That Comes Into And Steadies My Soul."

The Weak Overcomes Its/ Menace, The Strong Over-/comes Itself.

You Are Not Male Nor Female, But A Plan Deep-set Within The Heart Of Man.