Oh! To Be A Flower Nodding In

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

Art Is The Desire Of A Man To Express Himself, To Record The Reactions Of His Personality To The World He Lives In.

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

To Understand Vers Libre, One Must Abandon All Desire To Find In It The Even Rhythm Of Metrical Feet. One Must Allow The Lines To Flow As They Will When Read Aloud By An Intelligent Reader.

This Is War: Boys Flung Into A Breach Like Shoveled Earth; And Old Men, Broken, Driving Rapidly Before Crowds Of People In A Glitter Of Silly Decorations. Behind The Boys And The Old Men, Life Weeps, And Shreds Her Garments To The Blowing Winds.