Happy People Die Whole, They Are All

If Millions Are Born Millions Must Die.

When The Sun Shouts And People Abound One Thinks There Were The Ages Of Stone And The Age Of Bronze And The Iron Age; Iron The Unstable Metal; Steel Made Of Iron, Unstable As His Mother; The Tow-ered-up Cities Will Be Stains Of Rust On Mounds Of Plaster. Roots Will Not Pierce The Heaps For A Time, Kind Rains Will Cure Them, Then Nothing Will Remain Of The Iron Age And All These People But A Thigh-bone Or So, A Poem Stuck In The World's Thought, Splinters Of Glass In The Rubbish Dumps, A Concrete Dam Far Off In The Mountain.

Hear The Music, The Thunder Of The Wings. Love The Wild Swan.

It Seems To Me That This Whole Alone Is Worthy Of The Deeper Sort Of Love; And That There Is Peace, Freedom, I Might Say A Kind Of Salvation, In Turning One's Affections Outward Toward This One God, Rather Than Inwards On One's Self, Or On Humanity, Or On Human Imaginations And Abstractions - The World Of The Spirits.

Truly Men Hate The Truth; They'd Liefer Meet A Tiger On The Road.