No man can give me any word but Wait.

There are no magics or elves / Or timely godmothers to guide us. We are lost, must / Wizard a track through our own screaming weed.

What shall I give my children? who are poor, / Who are adjudged the leastwise of the land...

We are each other's magnitude and bond.

There can be no whiter whiteness than this one: An insurance man's shirt on its morning run.

Do not desire to fit in. Desire to oblige yourselves to lead.

The poetry is myself.