In The Church Of My Heart The

I Want To Be Understood By My Country, But If I Fail To Be Understood - What Then?, I Shall Pass Through My Native Land To One Side, Like A Shower Of Slanting Rain.

To Us Love Says Humming That The Heart's Stalled Motor Has Begun Working Again.

I Understand The Power And The Alarm Of Words - Not Those That They Applaud From Theatre-boxes, But Those Which Make Coffins Break From Bearers And On Their Four Oak Legs Walk Right Away.

On The Pavement Of My Trampled Soul The Steps Of Madmen Weave The Prints Of Rude Crude Words.

In Our Language Rhyme Is A Barrel. A Barrel Of Dynamite. The Line Is A Fuse. The Line Smoulders To The End And Explodes; And The Town Is Blown Sky-high In A Stanza.