It Ought To Have Gangsters, And Aeroplanes

It Ought To Have Gangsters, And Aeroplanes And A Lot Of Automatic Pistols.

God Dropped A Spark Down Into Everyone, And If We Find And Fan It To A Blaze, It'll Spring Up And Glow, Like--like The Sun, And Light The Wandering Out Of Stony Ways.

What Am I, Life? A Thing Of Watery Salt Held In Cohesion By Unresting Cells, Which Work They Know Not Why, Which Never Halt, Myself Unwitting Where Their Master Dwells?

Since The Printing Press Came Into Being, Poetry Has Ceased To Be The Delight Of The Whole Community Of Man; It Has Become The Amusement And Delight Of The Few.

The Three Foundations Of Judgement: Bold Design, Constant Practice, And Frequent Mistakes.