[history Is] That Terrible Mill In Which

Isn't It Curious How One Has Only To Open A Book Of Verse To Realise Immediately That It Was Written By A Very Fine Poet, Or Else That It Was Written By Someone Who Is Not A Poet At All. In The Case Of The Former, The Lines, The Images, Though They Are Inherent In Each Other, Leap Up And Give One This Shock Of Delight. In The Case Of The Latter, They Lie Flat On The Page, Never Having Lived.

Eccentricity Is Not, As Some Would Believe, A Form Of Madness. It Is Often A Kind Of Innocent Pride, And The Man Of Genius And The Aristocrat Are Frequently Regarded As Eccentrics Because Genius And Aristocrat Are Entirely Unafraid Of And Uninfluenced By The Opinions And Vagaries Of The Crowd.

People Are Usually Made Dames For Virtues I Do Not Possess.

Another Little Drink Wouldn't Do Us Any Harm.

White As A Winding Sheet, Masks Blowing Down The Street: Moscow, Paris London, Vienna - All Are Undone. The Drums Of Death Are Mumbling, Rumbling, And Tumbling, Mumbling, Rumbling, And Tumbling, The World's Floors Are Quaking, Crumbling And Breaking.