How Loud Clocks Can Tick When A

Fifteen Millions Of Soldiers With Popguns And Horses All Bent Upon Killing, Because Their "of Courses" Are Not Quite The Same.

To-night When The Full-bellied Moon Swallows The Stars. Grant That I Know.

A Man Must Be Sacrificed Now And Again To Provide For The Next Generation Of Men.

In My Stiff, Brocaded Gown. With My Powdered Hair And Jeweled Fan, I Too Am A Rare Pattern.

Art Is Like Politics. Any Theory Carried Too Far Ends In Sterility, And Freshness Is Only Gained By Following Some Other Line.