I Put My Head Out Of My

Death, Vicious Death, Leave A Green Branch For Love.

Every Step We Take On Earth Brings Us To A New World.

Today In My Heart A Vague Trembling Of Stars And All Roses Are As White As My Pain.

The Terrible, Cold, Cruel Part Is Wall Street. Rivers Of Gold Flow There From All Over The Earth, And Death Comes With It. There, As Nowhere Else, You Feel A Total Absence Of The Spirit: Herds Of Men Who Cannot Count Past Three, Herds More Who Cannot Get Past Six, Scorn For Pure Science And Demoniacal Respect For The Present. And The Terrible Thing Is That The Crowd That Fills The Street Believes That The World Will Always Be The Same And That It Is Their Duty To Keep That Huge Machine Running, Day And Night, Forever.

The Artist, And Particularly The Poet, Is Always An Anarchist In The Best Sense Of The Word. He Must Heed Only The Call That Arises Within Him From Three Strong Voices: The Voice Of Death, With All Its Foreboding, The Voice Of Love And The Voice Of Art.