The Heads Of Strong Old Age Are

The Cold Passion For Truth Hunts In No Pack.

Still The Mind Smiles At Its Own Rebellions.

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.

Poetry Is Not A Civilizer, Rather The Reverse, For Great Poetry Appeals To The Most Primitive Instincts.

A Little Too Abstract, A Little Too Wise, It Is Time For Us To Kiss The Earth Again, It Is Time To Let The Leaves Rain From The Skies, Let The Rich Life Run To The Roots Again.