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.

I should like to bring a case to trial: Prosperity versus Beauty, Cash registers teetering in a balance against the comfort of the soul.

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

Poetry is the most concentrated form of literature; it is the most emotionalized and powerful way in which thought can be presented.

On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns; maturity condones.

When you came, you were like red wine and honey, and the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.

Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart; The end lost in dream, They float past our view, We only watch their glad, early start. Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose; Their widening scope, Their distant employ, We never shall know. And the stream as it flows Sweeps them away, Each one is gone Ever beyond into infinite ways. We alone stay While years hurry on, The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.