What Is Poetry Which Does Not Save

If I Am All Mankind, Are They Themselves Without Me?

The Death Of A Man Is Like The Fall Of A Mighty Nation That Had Valiant Armies, Captains, And Prophets, And Wealthy Ports And Ships All Over The Seas.

All Of Us Yearn For The Highest Wisdom, But We Have To Rely On Ourselves In The End.

The Vineyard Country, Russet, Reddish, Carmine-brown In This Season. A Blue Outline Of Hills Above A Fertile Valley. It's Warm As Long As The Sun Does Not Set, In The Shade Cold Returns. A Strong Sauna And Then Swimming In A Pool Surrounded By Trees. Dark Redwoods, Transparent Pale-leved Birches. In Their Delicate Network, A Sliver Of The Moon. I Describe This For I Have Learned To Doubt Philosophy And The Visible World Is All That Remains.

You Who Think Of Us: They Lived Only In Delusion... Know That We The People Of The Book, Will Never Die!