You Just Have To Trust Your Own

Life Is Short And Pleasures Few And Holed The Ship And Drowned The Crew But O! But O! How Very Blue The Sea Is.

One Part Of Love Is Innocence One Part Of Love Is Guilt One Part The Milk That In A Sense Is Soured As Soon As Spilt One Part Of Love Is Sentiment One Part Of Love Is Lust One Part Is The Presentiment Of Our Return To Dust

A Soul Of Water A Soul Of Stone. A Soul By Name A Soul Unknown. The Hours Unmake Our Flesh Our Bone. The Soul Is All And All Alone!

I Don't Like To Make A Distinction Between The Writer And The Painter , Finally , Because I Do Both Things Anyway . Everybody's Dreaming And Trying To Put Down Their Dreams In The Way That Their Hand Knows Best . I Feel As Much A Unity , As Much Comradeship , With Painters As I Do Writers .

We Have Great Cities To Visit: New York And Washington, Paris And London; And Further East, And Older Than Any Of These, The Legendary City Of Samarkand, Whose Crumbling Palaces And Mosques Still Welcome Travelers On The Silk Road. Weary Of Cities? Then We’ll Take To The Wilds. To The Islands Of Hawaii And The Mountains Of Japan, To Forests Where Civil War Dead Still Lie, And Stretches Of Sea No Mariner Ever Crossed. They All Have Their Poetry: The Glittering Cities And The Ruined, The Watery Wastes And The Dusty; I Want To Show You Them All. I Want To Show You Everything.