Past Art Is Subject To Change.

The Poet's Mind Is In Fact A Receptacle For Seizing And Storing Up Numberless Feelings, Phrases, Images, Which Remain There Until All The Particles Which Can Unite To Form A New Compound Are Present Together.

Oh, Do Not Ask, 'what Is It?'/let Us Go And Make Our Visit.

Birth, And Copulation, And Death; That's All The Facts When You Come To Brass Tacks.

Only Through Time Time Is Conquered

I Am Moved By Fancies That Are Curled, Around These Images And Cling, The Notion Of Some Infinitely Gentle, Infinitely Suffering Thing.