Look Around—there's Only One Thing Of Danger

O Happy Childhood! Blessed Youth! But Once We Know Thy Potent Power; But Once We Live All Careless Free; No Cross To Mar Our Love-lit Bower.

Oh Each Successive Night That Comes Has Something In It Of An Abandoned Ember That Is Slowly Burning Out, And It Falls Swathed In Ruins, Surrounded By Funereal Objects.

My Soul Is An Empty Carousel At Sunset.

Megaphone In Which The Wind Passes Singing.

What Will They Say About My Poetry Who Never Touched My Blood?