Slayer Of The Winter, Art Thou Here

Yea, I Have Looked, And Seen November There; The Changeless Seal Of Change It Seemed To Be, Fair Death Of Things That, Living Once, Were Fair; Bright Sign Of Loneliness Too Great For Me, Strange Image Of The Dread Eternity, In Whose Void Patience How Can These Have Part, These Outstretched Feverish Hands, This Restless Heart?

If A Chap Can't Compose An Epic Poem While He's Weaving Tapestry, He Had Better Shut Up, He'll Never Do Any Good At All.

Don't Think Too Much Of Style.

The Wind Is Not Helpless For Any Man's Need, Nor Falleth The Rain But For Thistle And Weed.

When Socialism Comes, It May Be In Such A Form That We Won't Like It.