Once Fishing Was A Rabbit's Foot-- O

And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone

But Sometimes Everything I Write With The Threadbare Art Of My Eye Seems A Snapshot

It Is Night, And It Is Vanity, And Age Blackens The Heart Of Adam. Fear, The Yellow Chirper, Beaks Its Cage.

Poetry Is Not The Record Of An Event: It Is An Event.