Modern Poets Are Bells Of

Of Pure Poetry There Are Two Kinds, That Which Mirrors The Beauty Of The World In Which Our Bodies Are, And That Which Builds The More Mysterious Kingdoms Where Geography Ends And Fairyland Begins, With Gods And Heroes At War, And The Sirens Singing Still, And Alph Going Down To The Darkness From Xanadu.

Humanity, Let Us Say, Is Like People Packed In A Automobile Which Is Traveling Downhill Without Lights At A Terrific Speed And Driven By A Four-year-old Child. The Signposts Along The Way Are All Marked "progress."

Contrast Is The Dramatist's Method.

Logic, Like Whiskey, Loses Its Beneficial Effect When Taken In Too Large Quantities.

Then I Perceived, What I Had Never Thought, That All These Staring Houses Were Not Alike, But Different One From Another, Because They Held Different Dreams.