Dignity Is An Anachronism.

Spring Was Running In A Thin Green Flame Over The Valley.

No Idea Is So Antiquitated That It Was Not Once Modern. No Idea Is So Modern That It Will Not Some Day Be Antiquitated . . . To Seize The Flying Thought Before It Escapes Us Is Our Only Touch With Reality.

Doesn't All Experience Crumble In The End To Mere Literary Material?

It Is Lovely, When I Forget All Birthdays, Including My Own, To Find That Somebody Remembers Me.

It Was A Perfect Spring Afternoon, And The Air Was Filled With Vague, Roving Scents, As If The Earth Exhaled The Sweetness Of Hidden Flowers.