The One Thing Finished In This Hasty

Metaphor Is No Argument, Though It Be Sometimes The Gunpowder To Drive One Home, And Imbed It In The Memory.

The Flowers Or Weeds That Spring Up Tomorrow Are In The Seeds We Sow Today. The Foolish And The Dead Alone Never Change Their Opinions.

Two Meanings Have Our Lightest Fantasies,- One Of The Flesh, And Of The Spirit One.

We Kind O' Thought Christ Went Agin War An' Pillage.

The Eye Is The Notebook Of The Poet.