A little ink more or less! It surely can't matter? Even the sky and the opulent sea, The plains and the hills, aloof, Hear the uproar of all these books. But it is only a little ink more or less. What? You define me God with these trinkets? Can my misery meal on an ordered walking Of surpliced numskulls? And a fanfare of lights? Or even upon the measured pulpitings Of the familiar false and true? Is this God? Where, then is hell? Show me some bastard mushrooms Sprung from a pollution of blood. It is better. Where is God?

 

 

 

 

“Have you ever made a just man?” “Oh, I have made three,” answered God, “But two of them are dead, “And the third— “Listen! Listen! “And you will hear the thud of his defeat.”

 

 

 

 

I explain the silvered passing of a ship at night, The sweep of each sad lost wave, The dwindling boom of the steel thing's striving, The little cry of a man to a man, A shadow falling across the greyer night, And the sinking of the small star; Then the waste, the far waste of waters, And the soft lashing of black waves For long and in loneliness. Remember, thou, O ship of love, Thou leavest a far waste of waters, And the soft lashing of black waves For long and in loneliness.

 

 

 

 

“I have heard the sunset song of the birches, “A white melody in the silence, “I have seen a quarrel of the pines. “At nightfall “The little grasses have rushed by me “With the wind men. “These things have I lived,” quoth the maniac, “Possessing only eyes and ears. “But you— “You don green spectacles before you look at roses.”

 

 

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