Nature Is Always Hinting At

How Are We To Write The Russian Novel In America As Long As Life Goes So Unterribly?

When I See Birches Bend To Left And Right... I Like To Think Some Boy's Been Swinging Them.

Modern Poets Talk Against Business, Poor Things, But All Of Us Write For Money. Beginners Are Subjected To Trial By Market.

Space Ails Us Moderns: We Are Sick With Space.

Ends And Beginnings—there Are No Such Things. There Are Only Middles.