All A Poet Can Do Today Is

A Poem Does Not Grow By Jerks. As Trees In Spring Produce A New Ring Of Tissue, So Does Every Poet Put Forth A Fresh Outlay Of Stuff At The Same Season.

So Secretly, Like Wrongs Hushed-up, They Went.

Be Bullied, Be Outraged, By Killed, But Do Not Kill.

And By His Smile, I Knew That Sullen Hall, By His Dead Smile I Knew We Stood In Hell.

It Seemed That Out Of Battle I Escaped Down Some Profound Dull Tunnel, Long Since Scooped Through Granites Which Titanic Wars Had Groined.