In The End, Every Hypochondriac Is His

Sometimes Nothing Is So Solid To Me As Writing - I Suppose That's What A Vocation Means - At Times A Torment, A Bad Conscience, But All In All, Purpose And Direction.

Wallowing In This Bloody Sty, I Cast For Fish That Pleased My Eye

I Will Catch Christ With A Greased Worm, And When The Prince Of Darkness Stalks My Bloodstream To Its Stygian Term . . . On Water The Man-fisher Walks.

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone

If Youth Is A Defect, It Is One We Outgrow Too Soon.