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.

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

Youth condemns; maturity condones

Moon! Moon! I am prone before you. Pity me,and drench me in loneliness.

May is much sunshine through small leaves.

You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.

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