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

Everywhere, giant finned cars nose forward like fish; a savage servility slides by on grease.

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

It's the light of the oncoming train.

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

Most poetry is very formal, but when a modern poet is formal he gets more attention for it than old poets did.

The Lord survives the rainbow of His will.