The Cold Passion For Truth Hunts In

I Have Seen These Ways Of God: I Know Of No Reason For Fire And Change And Torture And The Old Returnings.

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

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

I Hate My Verses, Every Line, Every Word. Oh Pale And Brittle Pencils Ever To Try One Grass-blade's Curve, Or The Throat Of One Bird That Clings To Twig, Ruffled Against White Sky. Oh Cracked And Twilight Mirrors Ever To Catch One Color, One Glinting Flash, Of The Splendor Of Things.

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