The art finds kingdoms in a foot of ground.

We do not fight for the real but for shadows we make. A flag is a piece of cloth and a word is a sound, But we make them something neither cloth nor a sound, Totems of love and hate, black sorcery-stones.

Dreaming men are haunted men.

Money is sullen And wisdom is sly, But youth is the pollen That blows through the sky And does not ask why.

I am tired of loving a foreign muse.

Our earth is but a small star in a great universe. Yet of it we can make, if we choose, a planet unvexxed by war, untroubled by hunger or fear, undivided by senseless distinctions of race, color or theory.

The art finds kingdoms in a foot of ground.