Could I Find A Place

As We To The Brutes, Poets Are To Us.

George Eliot Has The Heart Of Sappho; But The Face, With The Long Proboscis, The Protruding Teeth Of The Apocalyptic Horse, Betrayed Animality.

The Sun Is Coming Down To Earth, And The Fields And The Waters Shout To Him Golden Shouts.

Jealousy Is Love Bed Of Burning Snarl.

A Kiss Is But A Kiss Now! And No Wave Of A Great Flood That Whirls Me To The Sea. But, As You Will! We'll Sit Contentedly, And Eat Our Pot Of Honey On The Grave.