The Hiss Was Now Becoming

The Wandering One, The Inquisitive Dreamer Of Dreams, The Eternal Asker Of Answers, Stands In The Street, And Lifts His Palms For The First Cold Ghost Of Rain.

We Are The Ghosts Of The Singing Furies .

I'm Not In The Least Southern; I'm Entirely New England.

O Sweet Clean Earth, From Whom The Green Blade Cometh! When We Are Dead, My Best Beloved And I, Close Well Above Us, That We May Rest Forever, Sending Up Grass And Blossoms To The Sky.

The Truth--a Hideous Spectacle!