Hate Is Ravening Vulture Beaks Descending On

If What We Worship Fail Us, Still The Fire Burns On, And It Is Much To Have Believed.

Life Is A Stream On Which We Strew Petal By Petal The Flower Of Our Heart.

A Black Cat Among Roses, Phlox, Lilac-misted Under A Quarter Moon, The Sweet Smells Of Heliotrope And Night-scented Stock. The Garden Is Very Still. It Is Dazed With Moonlight, Contented With Perfume.

I Do Not Suppose That Anyone Not A Poet Can Realize The Agony Of Creating A Poem. Every Nerve, Even Every Muscle, Seems Strained To The Breaking Point. The Poem Will Not Be Denied; To Refuse To Write It Would Be A Greater Torture. It Tears Its Way Out Of The Brain, Splintering And Breaking Its Passage, And Leaves That Organ In The State Of A Jelly-fish When The Task Is Done.

I Should Like To Bring A Case To Trial: Prosperity Versus Beauty, Cash Registers Teetering In A Balance Against The Comfort Of The Soul.