And blue-lung'd combers lumbered to the kill.

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. But where The wind is westerly, Where gnarled November makes the spiders fly Into the apparitions of the sky, They purpose nothing but their ease and die Urgently beating east to sunrise and the sea.

If youth is a defect, it is one we outgrow too soon.

It's the light of the oncoming train.

September twenty-second, Sir, the bough cracks with unpicked apples, and at dawn the small-mouth bass breaks water, gorged with spawn.

We are all old-timers, each of us holds a locked razor.

In the end, there is no end.