All The Untidyactivity Continues, Awful But Cheerful.

Icebergs Behoove The Soul (both Being Self-made From Elements Least Visible) To See Themselves: Fleshed, Fair, Erected, Indivisible.

Why Shouldn't We, So Generally Addicted To The Gigantic, At Last Have Some Small Works Of Art, Some Short Poems, Short Pieces Of Music [...], Some Intimate, Low-voiced, And Delicate Things In Our Mostly Huge And Roaring, Glaring World?

If After I Read A Poem The World Looks Like That Poem For 24 Hours Or So I'm Sure It's A Good One—and The Same Goes For Paintings.

I Am Sorry For People Who Can't Write Letters. But I Suspect Also That You And I ... Love To Write Them Because It's Kind Of Like Working Without Really Doing It.

Insomnia" Perhaps She's A Daytime Sleeper.