At Last Awake From Life, That Insane

Ignorance Is Not Innocence But Sin.

All Poetry Is Difficult To Read - The Sense Of It Anyhow.

What Of Soul Was Left, I Wonder, When The Kissing Had To Stop?

A People Is But The Attempt Of Many To Rise To The Completer Life Of One; And Those Who Live As Models For The Mass Are Singly Of More Value Than They All.

Each Life Unfulfilled, You See; It Hangs Still, Patchy And Scrappy: We Have Not Sighed Deep, Laughed Free, Starved, Feasted, Despaired,—been Happy.