Who Else Speaks For The

There Is A Formal Poetry Perfect Only In Form?the Number Of Syllables, The Designated And Required Stresses Of Accent, The Rhymes If Wantedthey Come Off With The Skill Of A Solved Crossword Puzzle.

It Is The Business Of Little Minds To Shrink.

Poetry Is The Establishment Of A Metaphorical Link Between White Butterfly-wings And The Scraps Of Torn-up Love-letters.

The Dead Hold In Their Hands Only What They Have Given Away.

Under The Harvest Moon, When The Soft Silver Drips Shimmering Over The Garden Nights, Death, The Gray Mocker, Comes And Whispers To You As A Beautiful Friend Who Remembers.