A Tolstory was never for me
Nor an ounce of Frost on my fingertips found
In the complexities of Estlin’s dreams, I am
Not a man without my own Wit
Or Dunbarred from uncaging this, my own sound
Only to be let loose in a Field of youthful green
No I am nonesuch of these or be Twain
I am a storm to be you see
And here I've just been Dickinson around