We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us

And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.

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. But Where The Wind Is Westerly, Where Gnarled November Makes The Spiders Fly Into The Apparitions Of The Sky, They Purpose Nothing But Their Ease And Die Urgently Beating East To Sunrise And The Sea.

We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us Holds A Locked Razor.

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.

I Was Overcome With An Attack Of Pathological Enthusiasm.