Modern Poets Are Bells Of Lead. They

Humanity, Let Us Say, Is Like People Packed In A Automobile Which Is Traveling Downhill Without Lights At A Terrific Speed And Driven By A Four-year-old Child. The Signposts Along The Way Are All Marked "progress."

It Is Very Seldom That The Same Man Knows Much Of Science, And About The Things That Were Known Before Science Came.

Logic, Like Whiskey, Loses Its Beneficial Effect When Taken In Too Large Quantities.

Contrast Is The Dramatist's Method.

And Little He Knew Of The Things That Ink May Do, How It Can Mark A Dead Man's Thought For The Wonder Of Later Years, And Tell Of Happening That Are Gone Clean Away, And Be A Voice For Us Out Of The Dark Of Time, And Save Many A Fragile Thing From The Pounding Of Heavy Ages; Or Carry To Us, Over The Rolling Centuries, Even A Song From Lips Long Dead On Forgotten Hills.