Oh! To Be A Flower Nodding In

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

How Loud Clocks Can Tick When A Room Is Empty, And One Is Alone!

You Are Ice And Fire The Touch Of You Burns My Hands Like Snow.

If What We Worship Fail Us, Still The Fire Burns On, And It Is Much To Have Believed.

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