Youth Condemns; Maturity Condones

Freighted With Hope, Crimsoned With Joy, We Scatter The Leaves Of Our Opening Rose.

Without Poetry The Soul And Heart Of Man Starves And Dies.

Underneath My Stiffened Gown Is The Softness Of A Woman Bathing In A Marble Basin

Moon! Moon! I Am Prone Before You. Pity Me,and Drench Me In Loneliness.

I Do Not Suppose That Anyone Not A Poet Can Realize The Agony Of Creating A Poem. Every Nerve, Even Every Muscle, Seems Strained To The Breaking Point. The Poem Will Not Be Denied; To Refuse To Write It Would Be A Greater Torture. It Tears Its Way Out Of The Brain, Splintering And Breaking Its Passage, And Leaves That Organ In The State Of A Jelly-fish When The Task Is Done.