Which Of Us Has Not

The Prey Of Fear, He, Always Curtailed, Extinguished, Thwarted By The Dusk, Work Partly Done, Says To The Alternating Blaze, "again The Sun! Anew Each Day; And New And New And New, That Comes Into And Steadies My Soul."

The Cynics In Life Are The People Who Are Always Trying To Do Things For People Who Don't Want Things Done For Them.

The Self Does Not Realize Itself Most Fully When Self-realization Is Its Most Constant Aim.

Poetry, That Is To Say The Poetic, Is A Primal Necessity.

If Technique Is Of No Interest To A Writer, I Doubt That The Writer Is An Artist.