There Should Be Two Main Objectives In

The Butterfly, A Cabbage-white, (his Honest Idiocy Of Flight) Will Never Now, It Is Too Late, Master The Art Of Flying Straight.

The Gas-cylinders Had By This Time Been Put Into Position On The Front Line. A Special Order Came Round Imposing Severe Penalties On Anyone Who Used Any Word But "accessory" In Speaking Of The Gas. This Was To Keep It Secret, But The French Civilians Knew All About The Scheme Long Before This.

Haunted Gulp Down Your Wine, Old Friends Of Mine, Roar Through The Darkness, Stamp And Sing And Lay Ghost Hands On Everything, But Leave The Noonday's Warm Sunshine To Living Lads For Mirth And Wine. I Met You Suddenly Down The Street, Strangers Assume Your Phantom Faces, You Grin At Me From Daylight Places, Dead, Long Dead, I'm Ashamed To Greet Dead Men Down The Morning Street.

This Seems To Me A Philosophical Question, And Therefore Irrelevant, Question. A Poet's Destiny Is To Love.

When The Immense Drugged Universe Explodes In A Cascade Of Unendurable Colour And Leaves Us Gasping Naked, This Is No More Than The Ectasy Of Chaos: Hold Fast, With Both Hands, To That Royal Love Which Alone, As We Know Certainly, Restores Fragmentation Into True Being. Ecstasy Of Chaos