The Sunlight On The Garden Hardens And

Up The Rebels, To Hell With The Pope, And God Save--as You Prefer--the King Or Ireland. The Land Of Scholars And Saints: Scholars And Saints My Eye, The Land Of Ambush, Purblind Manifestoes, Never-ending Complaints

I Am Not Yet Born; O Hear Me. Let Not The Bloodsucking Bat Or The Rat Or The Stoat Or The Club-footed Ghoul Come Near Me.

World Is Crazier And More Of It Than We Think, Incorrigibly Plural. I Peel And Portion A Tangerine And Spit The Pips And Feel The Drunkenness Of Things Being Various.

There Seeps From Heavily Jowled Or Hawk-like Foreign Faces The Guttural Sorrow Of The Refugees.

A Fortress Against Ideas And Against The Shuddering Insidious Shock Of The Theory-vendors The Little Sardine Men Crammed In A Monster Toy Who Tilt Their Aggregate Beast Against Our Crumbling Troy.