It Is In Fact A Part Of

The Purpose Of Literature Is To Turn Blood Into Ink.

As We Grow Older, The World Becomes Stranger, The Pattern More Complicated Of Dead And Living.

The Yellow Fog That Rubs Its Back Upon The Window-panes The Yellow Smoke That Rubs Its Muzzle On The Window-panes Licked Its Tongue Into The Corners Of The Evening Lingered Upon The Pools That Stand In Drains Let Fall Upon Its Back The Soot That Falls From Chimneys Slipped By The Terrace, Made A Sudden Leap And Seeing That It Was A Soft October Night Curled Once About The House, And Fell Asleep

The Difference Between Being An Elder Statesman And Posing Successfully As An Elder Statesman Is Practically Negligible.

The Single Rose Is Now The Garden Where All Loves End