People Say That Life Is The Thing,

We Grow With Years More Fragile In Body, But Morally Stutter, And Can Throw Off The Chill Of A Bad Conscience Almost At Once.

Style Is A Magic Wand, And Turns Everything To Gold That It Touches.

A Friend Who Loved Perfection Would Be The Perfect Friend, Did Not That Love Shut His Door On Me.

Friends Such As We Desire Are Dreams And Fables, Yet We Never Quite Give Up The Hope Of Finding Them.

But Why Wasn't I Born, Alas, In An Age Of Adjectives; Why Can One No Longer Write Of Silver-shedding Tears And Moon-tailed Peacocks, Of Eloquent Death, Of The Negro And Star-enameled Night?