Youth Condemns; Maturity Condones

Not A Softness Anywhere About Me, Only Whalebone And Brocade.

Witches Are Moon-birds, Witches Are The Women Of The False, Beautiful Moon.

My Heart Is Tuned To Sorrow, And The Strings Vibrate Most Readily To Minor Chords, Searching And Sad; My Mind Is Stuffed With Words Which Voice The Passion And The Ache Of Things: Illusions Beating With Their Baffled Wings Against The Walls Of Circumstance.

Fifteen Millions Of Soldiers With Popguns And Horses All Bent Upon Killing, Because Their "of Courses" Are Not Quite The Same.

All Books Are Either Dreams Or Swords, You Can Cut, Or You Can Drug, With Words.