You Making Haste On Decay: Not Blameworthy;

Oh Heavy Change. The World Deteriorates Like A Rotting Apple, Worms And A Skin.

Civilization Is A Transient Sickness.

Death's A Fierce Meadowlark: But To Die Having Made / Something More Equal To The Centuries / Than Muscle And Bone, Is Mostly To Shed Weakness.

I Hate My Verses, Every Line, Every Word. Oh Pale And Brittle Pencils Ever To Try One Grass-blade's Curve, Or The Throat Of One Bird That Clings To Twig, Ruffled Against White Sky. Oh Cracked And Twilight Mirrors Ever To Catch One Color, One Glinting Flash, Of The Splendor Of Things.

The Greatest Beauty Is Organic Wholeness, The Wholeness Of Life And Things, The Divine Beauty Of The Universe.