Especially when the October wind With frosty fingers punishes my hair, Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire And cast a shadow crab upon the land, By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds, Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks, My busy heart who shudders as she talks Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.

Though lovers be lost love shall not.

You just wait. I'll sin 'til I blow up!

I have just had eighteen whiskeys in a row. I do believe that is a record.

The land of my fathers. My fathers can have it.

The best craftsmanship always leaves holes and gaps... so that something that is not in the poem can creep, crawl, flash or thunder in.

Come on up, boys -I'm dead.