Contrast Is The Dramatist's Method.

It Was The Hour When Gauze-winged Insects Are Born That Only Live For A Day.

How Beautiful Are Dreams! In Dreams The Dead May Live, Even The Long Dead And The Very Silent.

Of Pure Poetry There Are Two Kinds, That Which Mirrors The Beauty Of The World In Which Our Bodies Are, And That Which Builds The More Mysterious Kingdoms Where Geography Ends And Fairyland Begins, With Gods And Heroes At War, And The Sirens Singing Still, And Alph Going Down To The Darkness From Xanadu.

And At That Moment A Wind Came Out Of The Northwest, And Entered The Woods And Bared The Golden Branches, And Danced Over The Downs, And Led A Company Of Scarlet And Golden Leaves, That Had Dreaded This Day But Danced Now It Had Come; And Away With A Riot Of Dancing And Glory Of Colour, High In The Light Of The Sun That Had Set From The Sight Of The Fields, Went Wind And Leaves Together.

Come With Me, Ladies And Gentlemen Who Are In Any Wise Weary Of London: Come With Me: And Those That Tire At All Of The World We Know: For We Have New Worlds Here.