The Lord Survives The Rainbow Of His

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone; Peace To Our Children When They Fall In Small War On The Heel Of Small War--until The End Of Time To Police The Earth, A Ghost Orbiting Forever Lost In Our Monotonous Sublime

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.

Everywhere, Giant Finned Cars Nose Forward Like Fish; A Savage Servility Slides By On Grease.

I'm Sure That Writing Isn't A Craft, That Is, Something For Which You Learn The Skills And Go On Turning Out. It Must Come From Some Deep Impulse, Deep Inspiration. That Can't Be Taught, It Can't Be What You Use In Teaching.

I Saw The Spiders Marching Through The Air, Swimming From Tree To Tree That Mildewed Day In Latter August When The Hay Came Creaking To The Barn.