Seagulls . . . Slim Yachts Of

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.

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

Shiva... Is The Only Hunter That Will Ever Catch The Wild Swan; The Prey She Will Take Last Is The Wild White Swan Of The Beauty Of Things. Then She Will Be Alone, Pure Destruction, Achieved And Supreme, Empty Darkness Under The Death-tent Wings. She Will Build A Nest Of The Swan's Bones And Hatch A New Brood, Hang New Heavens With New Birds, All Be Renewed.

The Heads Of Strong Old Age Are Beautiful Beyond All Grace Of Youth.

The Cold Passion For Truth Hunts In No Pack.