Every Great Change Is Simple.

Gloom And Solemnity Are Entirely Out Of Place In Even The Most Rigorous Study Of An Art Originally Intended To Make Glad The Heart Of Man.

Until You Know Who Has Lent What To Whom, You Know Nothing Whatever Of Politics, You Know Nothing Whatever Of History, You Know Nothing Of International Wrangles.

Rhythm Is Form Cut Into Time.

You Have Been Second Always. Tragical? No. You Preferred It To The Usual Thing: One Dull Man, Dulling And Uxorious, One Average Mind- With One Thought Less, Each Year.

The Garden En Robe De Parade. - Samain Like A Skein Of Loose Silk Blown Against A Wall She Walks By The Railing Of A Path In Kensington Gardens, And She Is Dying Piece-meal Of A Sort Of Emotional Anaemia. And Round About There Is A Rabble Of The Filthy, Sturdy, Unkillable Infants Of The Very Poor. They Shall Inherit The Earth. In Her Is The End Of Breeding. Her Boredom Is Exquisite And Excessive. She Would Like Some One To Speak To Her, And Is Almost Afraid That I Will Commit That Indiscretion.