Youth Condemns; Maturity Condones

In My Stiff, Brocaded Gown. With My Powdered Hair And Jeweled Fan, I Too Am A Rare Pattern.

Great Emotion Always Tends To Become Rhythmic, And Out Of That Tendency The Forms Of Art Have Been Evolved. Art Becomes Artificial Only When The Forms Take Precedence Over The Emotion.

I Ask But One Thing Of You, Only One, That Always You Will Be My Dream Of You; That Never Shall I Wake To Find Untrue All This I Have Believed And Rested On, Forever Vanished, Like A Vision Gone Out Into The Night. Alas, How Few There Are Who Strike In Us A Chord We Knew Existed, But So Seldom Heard Its Tone We Tremble At The Half-forgotten Sound. The World Is Full Of Rude Awakenings And Heaven-born Castles Shattered To The Ground, Yet Still Our Human Longing Vainly Clings To A Belief In Beauty Through All Wrongs. O Stay Your Hand, And Leave My Heart Its Songs!

Even Pain Pricks To Livelier Living.

A Black Cat Among Roses, Phlox, Lilac-misted Under A Quarter Moon, The Sweet Smells Of Heliotrope And Night-scented Stock. The Garden Is Very Still. It Is Dazed With Moonlight, Contented With Perfume.