Poetry Is A Projection Across Silence Of

In The Night The Cabbages Catch At The Moon, The Leaves Drip Silver, The Rows Of Cabbages Are A Series Of Little Silver Waterfalls In The Moon.

Pile The Bodies High At Austerlitz And Waterloo. Shovel Them Under And Let Me Work- I Am The Grass; I Cover All. And Pile Them High At Gettysburg. And Pile Them High At Ypres And Verdun. Shovel Them Under And Let Me Work. Two Years, Ten Years,and Passengers Ask The Conductor- What Place Is This? Where Are We Now? I Am The Grass. Let Me Work.

There Have Been As Many Varieties Of Socialists As There Are Wild Birds That Fly In The Woods And Sometimes Go Up And On Through The Clouds.

If The Facts Are Against You, Argue The Law. If The Law Is Against You, Argue The Facts. If The Law And The Facts Are Against You, Pound The Table And Yell Like Hell

Poetry Is A Theorem Of A Yellow-silk Handkerchief Knotted With Riddles, Sealed In A Balloon Tied To The Tail Of A Kite Flying In A White Wind Against A Blue Sky In Spring.