Who Hail Thee, Man! The Pilgrim Of

An Original Something, Dear Maid, You Would Wish Me To Write; But How Shall I Begin? For I'm Sure I Have Not Original In Me, Excepting Original Sin.

On Linden, When The Sun Was Low, All Bloodless Lay The Untrodden Snow, And Dark As Winter Was The Flow Of Iser, Rolling Rapidly.

The Being Level Speaks The Language Of Art, Music, Color Shape And Pattern Directly -- A Language That Requires No Words -- Is Not Limited By Words -- Nor Does It Have The Specificity Of Words And Thus Cannot Be Broken Onto Parts That Can Be Manipulated Or Analyzed By The Intellect. It Must Be Swallowed, Whole Not Parsed, Sorted And Justified.

The Popularity Of That Baby-faced Boy, Who Possessed Not Even The Elements Of A Good Actor, Was A Hallucination In The Public Mind, And A Disgrace To Our Theatrical History.

Tomorrow Let Us Do Or Die!