Only The Few Know The Sweetness Of

All Of The People Of My Time Were Bound With Chains. They Had Forgotten The Long Fields And The Standing Corn. They Had Forgotten The West Winds.

People Keep On Getting Married. Evidently Hope Is Eternal In The Human Breast.

Most People Are Afraid To Trust Their Imaginations And The Artist Is Not.

I Think You Know That When An American Stays Away From New York Too Long Something Happens To Him. Perhaps He Becomes A Little Provincial, A Little Dead And Afraid.

It Has Long Been My Desire To Be A Little Worm In The Fair Apple Of Progress.