Even Pain Pricks To Livelier Living.

I Am Tired, Beloved, Of Chafing My Heart Against The Want Of You; Of Squeezing It Into Little Inkdrops, And Posting It.

Freighted With Hope, Crimsoned With Joy, We Scatter The Leaves Of Our Opening Rose.

Not A Softness Anywhere About Me, Only Whalebone And Brocade.

I Should Like To Bring A Case To Trial: Prosperity Versus Beauty, Cash Registers Teetering In A Balance Against The Comfort Of The Soul.

How Hard, How Desperately Hard, Is The Way Of The Experimenter In Art!