May Is Much Sunshine Through

Without Poetry The Soul And Heart Of Man Starves And Dies.

Art Is The Desire Of A Man To Express Himself, To Record The Reactions Of His Personality To The World He Lives In.

A Black Cat Among Roses, Phlox, Lilac-misted Under A Quarter Moon, The Sweet Smells Of Heliotrope And Night-scented Stock. The Garden Is Very Still. It Is Dazed With Moonlight, Contented With Perfume.

I Know That A Creed Is The Shell Of A Lie.

My Words Are Little Jars For You To Take And Put Upon A Shelf. Their Shapes Are Quaint And Beautiful, And They Have Many Pleasant Colours And Lustres To Recommend Them. Also The Scent From Them Fills The Room With Sweetness Of Flowers And Crushed Grasses.