It was only a chick. And when young, the Phoenix Is no more astounding than a barn-yard cock. State Street, maintain your silence. And please the financiers who have exacted Murder and suicide with Investment Council. Let men made easy by his death keep silent Resenting Crosby's life and Crosby's death Resenting.
Poetry has saints.
He was not of them. His death was his best poem. And Crosby, dead, Shall live in history like the marauders Infatuate of new found luxuries Who fired the scrolls of Alexandria To warm the water of the Public Baths. Wise men are moon gazers who never challenge The fisher of tides to mesh them in her net. Wise men have built with calm of Antonine Their philosophic membranes which absorb From toxic chaos only pleasing lies.