civilization is a transient sickness.

Well: the day is a poem but too much Like one of Jeffers's, crusted with blood and barbaric omens Painful to excess, inhuman as a hawk's cry.

Imagination, the traitor of the mind, has taken my solitude and slain it.

Pleasure is the carrot dangled to lead the ass to market; or the precipice.

Justice and mercy/ Are human dreams, they do not concern the birds nor the fish nor eternal God.

There is no reason for amazement: surely one always knew that cultures decay, and life's end is death.

The tides are in our veins.