Oh! To Be A Butterfly Still, Upon

When You Came, You Were Like Red Wine And Honey, And The Taste Of You Burnt My Mouth With Its Sweetness.

Happiness, To Some, Is Elation; To Others It Is Mere Stagnation.

Great Emotion Always Tends To Become Rhythmic, And Out Of That Tendency The Forms Of Art Have Been Evolved. Art Becomes Artificial Only When The Forms Take Precedence Over The Emotion.

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

Don’t Ask A Writer What He’s Working On. It’s Like Asking Someone With Cancer On The Progress Of His Disease.