The Progress Of Any Writer Is Marked

The World's Decay Where The Wind's Hands Have Passed, And My Head, Worn Out With Love, At Rest In My Hands, And My Hands Full Of Dust.

It Took The Whole Of Creation To Produce My Foot, My Each Feather: Now I Hold Creation In My Foot.

The Shell The Sea Fills My Ear With Sand And With Fear. You May Wash Out The Sand, But Never The Sound Of The Ghost Of The Sea That Is Haunting Me.

The Real Mystery Is This Strange Need. Why Can't We Just Hide It And Shut Up? Why Do We Have To Blab? Why Do Human Beings Need To Confess?

So The Self Under The Eye Lies, Attendant And Withdrawn.