In My Stiff, Brocaded Gown. With My

A Man Must Be Sacrificed Now And Again To Provide For The Next Generation Of Men.

All Books Are Either Dreams Or Swords, You Can Cut, Or You Can Drug, With Words.

This Is War: Boys Flung Into A Breach Like Shoveled Earth; And Old Men, Broken, Driving Rapidly Before Crowds Of People In A Glitter Of Silly Decorations. Behind The Boys And The Old Men, Life Weeps, And Shreds Her Garments To The Blowing Winds.

Poetry, Far More Than Fiction, Reveals The Soul Of Humanity.

You Are Ice And Fire The Touch Of You Burns My Hands Like Snow.