The Truth--a Hideous Spectacle!

Come Back, True Love! Sweet Youth, Return!— But Time Goes On, And Will, Unheeding, Though Hands Will Reach, And Eyes Will Yearn, And The Wild Days Set True Hearts Bleeding.

We Were All Born Of Flesh, In A Flare Of Pain. We Do Not Remember The Red Roots Whence We Rose, But We Know That We Rose And Walked, That After A While We Shall Lie Down Again.

I Think We've Come To A Kind Of Splinter Period In Poetry. These Tiny Little Bright Fragments Of Observation - And Not Produced Under Sufficient Pressure - Some Of It's Very Skillful, But I Don't Think There's Anywhere A Discernible Major Poet In The Process Of Emerging; Or If He Is, I Ain't Seen Him.

Life Is The Thing--the Song Of Life-- The Eager Plow, The Thirsty Knife!

Music I Heard With You Was More Than Music, And Bread I Broke With You Was More Than Bread. Now That I Am Without You, All Is Desolate; All That Was Once So Beautiful Is Dead.