Fifteen Millions Of Soldiers With Popguns And

Moon! Moon! I Am Prone Before You. Pity Me,and Drench Me In Loneliness.

Poets Are Always The Advance Guard Of Literature; The Advance Guard Of Life. It Is For This Reason That Their Recognition Comes So Slowly.

I Must Be Mad, Or Very Tired, When The Curve Of A Blue Bay Beyond A Railroad Track Is Shrill And Sweet To Me Like The Sudden Springing Of A Tune, And The Sight Of A White Church Above Thin Trees In A City Square Amazes My Eyes As Though It Were The Parthenon.

When I Go Away From You The World Beats Dead Like A Slackened Drum.

I Shall Go Up And Down In My Gown. Gorgeously Arrayed, Boned And Stayed.