For You Know Only A Heap Of

Turning Wearily, As One Would Turn To Nod Goodbye To Rochefoucauld, If The Street Were Time And He As The End Of The Street.

Poetry Is A Mug's Game.

Every Moment Is A New And Shocking Transvaluation Of All We Have Ever Been.

Because I Do Not Hope To Turn Again Because I Do Not Hope Because I Do Not Hope To Turn Desiring This Man's Gift And That Man's Scope I No Longer Strive To Strive Towards Such Things (why Should The Aged Eagle Stretch Its Wings?) Why Should I Mourn The Vanished Power Of The Usual Reign?

We Are The Hollow Men We Are The Stuffed Men Leaning Together...