The World Is Absolutely Out

Middle Age At Forty-five, What Next, What Next? At Every Corner, I Meet My Father, My Age, Still Alive.

Poetry Is Not The Record Of An Event: It Is An Event.

I Saw The Spiders Marching Through The Air, Swimming From Tree To Tree That Mildewed Day In Latter August When The Hay Came Creaking To The Barn. But Where The Wind Is Westerly, Where Gnarled November Makes The Spiders Fly Into The Apparitions Of The Sky, They Purpose Nothing But Their Ease And Die Urgently Beating East To Sunrise And The Sea.

In The End, Every Hypochondriac Is His Own Prophet.

Once Fishing Was A Rabbit's Foot-- O Wind Blow Cold, O Wind Blow Hot