The Sun Was Warm But The Wind

Before Now Poetry Has Taken Notice Of Wars, And What Are Wars But Politics Transformed From Chronic To Acute And Bloody?

What We Live By We Die By.

Skepticism, Is That Anything More Than We Used To Mean When We Said, Well, What Have We Here?

Loyalty Is That For The Lack Of Which Your Gang Will Shoot You Without Benefit Of Trial By Jury.

The Line-storm Clouds Fly Tattered And Swift, The Road Is Forlorn All Day, Where A Myriad Snowy Quartz Stones Lift, And The Hoof-prints Vanish Away. The Roadside Flowers, Too Wet For The Bee, Expend Their Bloom In Vain. Come Over The Hills And Far With Me, And Be My Love In The Rain.