Poetry Is Not The Thing Said, But

Who Made The World I Cannot Tell; 'tis Made, And Here Am I In Hell. My Hand, Though Now My Knuckles Bleed, I Never Soiled With Such A Deed.

The Rainy Pleiads Wester Orion Plunges Prone, And Midnight Strikes And Hastens, And I Lie Down Alone.

I, A Stranger And Afraid, In A World I Never Made.

Into My Hear An Air That Kills Through Yon Far Country Blows What Are Those Blue Remembered Hills What Spires,what Farms Are Those? That Is The Land Of Lost Content I Can See It Shining Plain The Happy Highways Where I Went And Cannot Come Again.

Clay Lies Still, But Blood's A Rover; Breath's Aware That Will Not Keep. Up, Lad: When The Journey's Over Then There'll Be Time Enough To Sleep.