We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us

I Was Overcome With An Attack Of Pathological Enthusiasm.

I Saw The Spiders Marching Through The Air, Swimming From Tree To Tree That Mildewed Day In Latter August When The Hay Came Creaking To The Barn.

Those Blessed Structures, Plot And Rhyme-- Why Are They No Help To Me Now I Want To Make Something Imagined, Not Recalled?

I Myself Am Hell; Nobody's Here

But Sometimes Everything I Write With The Threadbare Art Of My Eye Seems A Snapshot