Webster was much possessed by death And saw the skull beneath the skin.

Whether we fall by ambition, blood, or lust, Like diamonds, we are cut with our own dust.

Webster is not concerned with humanity. He is the poet of bile and brainstorm, the sweet singer of apoplexy; ideally, one feels, he would have had all his char…

Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle: she died young.

Caballito negro. ?Donde llevas tu jinete muerto?

They darted down and rose up like a wave Or buzzed impetuously as before; One would have thought the corpse was held a slave To living by the life it bore!

And there, a field rat, startled, squealing bleeds, His belly close to ground. I see the blade, Blood-stained, continue cutting weeds and shade