We Prove, We Do Not Explain, Our

The Heart That Gives, Gathers.

[the] Whirlwind Fife-and-drum Of The Storm Bends The Salt Marsh Grass, Disturbs Stars In The Sky And The Star On The Steeple; It Is A Privilege To See So Much Confusion.

Everything I Have Written Is The Result Of Reading Or Of Interest In People.

Poetry, That Is To Say The Poetic, Is A Primal Necessity.

I'm Troubled. I'm Dissatisfied. I'm Irish.