What Thou Lov'st Well Is Thy True

A Slave Is One Who Waits For Someone To Come And Free Him.

Artists Are The Antennae Of The Race, But The Bullet-headed Many Will Never Learn To Trust The Great Artists.

Sumer Is Icumen In, Lhude Sing Cucc. Groweth Sed, And Bloweth Med, And Springth The Wude Nu, Sing Cuccu!

The Author's Conviction On This Day Of New Year Is That Music Begins To Atrophy When It Departs Too Far From The Dance; That Poetry Begins To Atrophy When It Gets Too Far From Music; But This Must Not Be Taken As Implying That All Good Music Is Dance Music Or All Poetry Lyric. Bach And Mozart Are Never Too Far From Physical Movement.

The Garden En Robe De Parade. - Samain Like A Skein Of Loose Silk Blown Against A Wall She Walks By The Railing Of A Path In Kensington Gardens, And She Is Dying Piece-meal Of A Sort Of Emotional Anaemia. And Round About There Is A Rabble Of The Filthy, Sturdy, Unkillable Infants Of The Very Poor. They Shall Inherit The Earth. In Her Is The End Of Breeding. Her Boredom Is Exquisite And Excessive. She Would Like Some One To Speak To Her, And Is Almost Afraid That I Will Commit That Indiscretion.