The Love Boat Has Crashed Against The

I Understand The Power And The Alarm Of Words - Not Those That They Applaud From Theatre-boxes, But Those Which Make Coffins Break From Bearers And On Their Four Oak Legs Walk Right Away.

In The Church Of My Heart The Choir Is On Fire

Too Slow, The Wagons Of Years, The Oxen Of Days--too Glum. Our God Is The God Of Speed, Our Heart--our Battle-drum.

If You Wish, I Shall Grow Irreproachably Tender: Not A Man, But A Cloud In Trousers!

Formerly I Believed Books Were Made Like This: A Poet Came, Lightly Opened His Lips, And The Inspired Fool Burst Into Song – If You Please! But It Seems, Before They Can Launch A Song, Poets Must Tramp For Days With Callused Feet, And The Sluggish Fish Of The Imagination Flounders Softly In The Slush Of The Heart. And While, With Twittering Rhymes, They Boil A Broth Of Loves And Nightingales, The Tongueless Street Merely Writhes For Lack Of Something To Shout Or Say