It Is Only A Little Planet, But

The Love Of Freedom Has Been The Quality Of Western Man.

A Little Too Abstract, A Little Too Wise, It Is Time For Us To Kiss The Earth Again, It Is Time To Let The Leaves Rain From The Skies, Let The Rich Life Run To The Roots Again.

Death's A Fierce Meadowlark: But To Die Having Made / Something More Equal To The Centuries / Than Muscle And Bone, Is Mostly To Shed Weakness.

I Hate My Verses, Every Line, Every Word. Oh Pale And Brittle Pencils Ever To Try One Grass-blade's Curve, Or The Throat Of One Bird That Clings To Twig, Ruffled Against White Sky. Oh Cracked And Twilight Mirrors Ever To Catch One Color, One Glinting Flash, Of The Splendor Of Things.

We Have To Live Like People In A Web Of Knives, We Mustn't Reach Out Our Hands Or We Get Them Gashed.