The Earth Is A Great

Style Is The Substance Of The Subject Called Unceasingly To The Surface.

Not Being Heard Is No Reason For Silence.

Because One Doesn't Like The Way Things Are Is No Reason To Be Unjust Towards God.

In Every Cradle Decked With Rosy Wreath Lurk Germs Of Death.

A Translation In Verse . . . Seems To Me Something Absurd, Impossible.