I Desire To Press In

Stately, Plump Buck Mulligan Came From The Stairhead, Bearing A Bowl Of Lather On Which A Mirror And A Razor Lay Crossed.

Then Nuvoletta Reflected For The Last Time In Her Little Long Life And She Made Up All Her Myriads Of Drifting Minds In One. She Cancelled All Her Engauzements. She Climbed Over The Bannistars; She Gave A Childy Cloudy Cry: Nuee! Nuee! A Lightdress Fluttered. She Was Gone. And Into The River That Had Been A Stream . . . There Fell A Tear, A Singult Tear, The Loveliest Of All Tears . . . For It Was A Leaptear. But The River Tripped On Her By And By, Lapping As Though Her Heart Was Brook: Why, Why, Why! Weh, O Weh! I'se So Silly To Be Flowing But I No Canna Stay!

The Sacred Pint Alone Can Unbind The Tongue.

The Supreme Question About A Work Of Art Is Out Of How Deep A Life Does It Spring.

Poetry, Even When Apparently Most Fantastic, Is Always A Revolt Against Artifice, A Revolt, In A Sense, Against Actuality.