Beginning with doom in the bulb, the spring unravels.

I think, that if I touched the earth, It would crumble; It is so sad and beautiful, So tremulously like a dream.

Hands have not tears to flow.

Somebody's boring me. I think it's me.

This world is half the devil's and my own, Daft with the drug that's smoking in a girl and curling round the bud that forks her eye.

Rage, rage against the dying light

This poem has been called obscure. I refuse to believe that it is obscurer than pity, violence, or suffering. But being a poem, not a lifetime, it is more compressed.