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

In the end, there is no end.

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

Poetry is not the record of an event: it is an event.

The Lord survives the rainbow of His will.

The world is absolutely out of control now and is not going to be saved by any reason or unreason.

I want to apologize for plaguing you with so many telephone calls last November and December. When the 'enthusiasm' is coming on me it is accompanied by a feverish reaching out to my friends. After its over I wince and wither.