How but in custom and in ceremony are innocence and beauty born?

Much did I rage when young, Being by the world oppressed, But now with flattering tongue It speeds the parting guest.

What the world's million lips are searching for, must be substantial somewhere.

I have known more men destroyed by the desire to have wife and child and to keep them in comfort than I have seen destroyed by drink and harlots.

Somewhere beyond the curtain Of distorting days Lives that lonely thing That shone before these eyes Targeted, trod like Spring.

All art is in the last analysis an endeavor to condense as out of the flying vapor of the world an image of human perfection, and for its own and not for the art's sake.

What shall I do for pretty girls Now my old bawd is dead?