At Least The Pilgrim Fathers Used To

What If A Much Of A Which Of A Wind Gives The Truth To Summer's Lie; Bloodies With Dizzying Leaves The Sun And Yanks Immortal Stars Awry?

Every Artist's Strictly Illimitable Country Is Himself. An Artist Who Plays That Country False Has Committed Suicide; And Even A Good Lawyer Cannot Kill The Dead. But A Human Being Who's True To Himself - Whoever Himself May Be - Is Immortal; And All The Atomic Bombs Of All The Antiartists In Spacetime Will Never Civilize Immortality.

Anyone Lived In A Pretty How Town (with Up So Floating Many Bells Down) Spring Summer Autumn Winter He Sang His Didn't He Danced His Did.

So Far As I Am Concerned, Poetry And Every Other Art Was, Is, And Forever Will Be Strictly And Distinctly A Question Of Individuality.

To Be Nobody-but-yourself - In A World Which Is Doing Its Best, Night And Day, To Make You Everybody Else - Means To Fight The Hardest Battle Which Any Human Being Can Fight; And Never Stop Fighting.