Time! Joyless emblem of the greed of millions, robber of the best which earth can give.

Happiness, to some, elation; Is, to others, mere stagnation.

Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.

This is war: Boys flung into a breach Like shoveled earth; And old men, Broken, Driving rapidly before crowds of people In a glitter of silly decorations. Behind the boys And the old men, Life weeps, And shreds her garments To the blowing winds.

Love is a game-yes? I think it is a drowning.

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!

How hard, how desperately hard, is the way of the experimenter in art!