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Poem	This morning Hitler spoke in Danzig, we hear his voice. A man of genius: that is, of amazing Ability, courage, devotion, cored on a sick child's soul, Heard clearly through the dog wrath, a sick child Wailing in Danzig; invoking destruction and wailing at it. Here, the day was extremely hot; about noon A south wind like a blast from hell's mouth spilled a slight rain On the parched land, and at five a light earthquake Danced the house, no harm done. Tonight I have been amusing myself Watching the blood-red moon droop slowly Into the black sea through bursts of dry lightning and distant thunder. Well: the day is a poem: but too much Like one of Jeffers's, crusted with blood and barbaric omens, Painful to excess, inhuman as a hawk's cry.
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