We Live Ruins Amid Ruins.

[a]s If Life Were A Thunder-storm Wherein You Can See By A Flash The Horizon, And Then Cannot See Your Hand.

In The Actual World--the Painful Kingdom Of Time And Place--dwell Care, And Canker, And Fear. With Thought, With The Ideal, Is Immortal Hilarity, The Rose Of Joy.

The Hero Sees That The Event Is Ancillary: It Must Follow Him.

These Arts Open Great Gates Of A Future, Promising To Make The World Plastic And To Lift Human Life Out Of Its Beggary To A God- Like Ease And Power.

Criticism Should Not Be Querulous And Wasting, All Knife And Root-puller, But Guiding, Instructive, Inspiring, A South Wind, Not An East Wind.