Brighter Than Fireflies Upon The Uji River

Great Emotion Always Tends To Become Rhythmic, And Out Of That Tendency The Forms Of Art Have Been Evolved. Art Becomes Artificial Only When The Forms Take Precedence Over The Emotion.

Fifteen Millions Of Soldiers With Popguns And Horses All Bent Upon Killing, Because Their "of Courses" Are Not Quite The Same.

I Am Tired, Beloved, Of Chafing My Heart Against The Want Of You; Of Squeezing It Into Little Inkdrops, And Posting It.

Not A Softness Anywhere About Me, Only Whalebone And Brocade.

Even Pain Pricks To Livelier Living.