Uncorseted, Her Friendly Bust Gives

An Editor Should Tell The Author His Writing Is Better Than It Is. Not A Lot Better, A Little Better.

Artistic Inevitability Lies In The Complete Adequacy Of The External To The Emotion.

My Life Is Light, Waiting For The Death Wind, Like A Feather On The Back Of My Hand.

The Dove Descending Breaks The Air With Flame Of Incandescent Terror Of Which The Tongues Declare The One Discharge From Sin And Error. The Only Hope, Or Else Despair Lies In The Choice Of Pyre Or Pyre- To Be Redeemed From Fire By Fire. Who Then Devised The Torment? Love. Love Is The Unfamiliar Name Behind The Hands That Wove The Intolerable Shirt Of Flame Which Human Power Cannot Remove. We Only Live, Only Suspire Consumed By Either Fire Or Fire.

For Love Would Be Love Of The Wrong Thing; There Is Yet Faith, But The Faith And The Love And The Hope Are All In The Waiting.