Death Opens Unknown Doors. It Is Most

Man With His Burning Soul Has But An Hour Of Breath To Build A Ship Of Truth In Which His Soul May Sail- Sail On The Sea Of Death. For Death Takes Toll Of Beauty, Courage, Youth, Of All But Truth.

From '41 To '51i Was My Folk's Contrary Son;i Bit My Father's Hand Right Throughand Broke My Mother's Heart In Two.

All Ye That Pass By! While We Least Think It He Prepares His Mate. Mate, And The King's Pawn Played, It Never Ceases, Though All The Earth Is Dust Of Taken Pieces.

In The Dark Room Where I Began My Mother's Life Made Me A Man. Through All The Months Of Human Birth Her Beauty Fed My Common Earth. I Cannot See, Nor Breathe, Nor Stir, But Through The Death Of Some Of Her.

Since The Printing Press Came Into Being, Poetry Has Ceased To Be The Delight Of The Whole Community Of Man; It Has Become The Amusement And Delight Of The Few.