How Are We To Write The Russian

Some Say The World Will End In Fire, Some Say In Ice. From What I've Tasted Of Desire, I Hold With Those Who Favor Fire. But If It Had To Perish Twice I Think I Know Enough Of Hate To Say That For Destruction Ice Is Also Great And Would Suffice.

But These Are Flowers That Fly And All But Sing: And Now From Having Ridden Out Desire They Lie Closed Over In The Wind And Cling Where Wheels Have Freshly Sliced The April Mire.

A Breeze Discovered My Open Book And Began To Flutter The Leaves To Look

A Bird Half Wakened In The Lunar Noon Sang Halfway Through Its Little Inborn Tune.

Skepticism, Is That Anything More Than We Used To Mean When We Said, Well, What Have We Here?