The Only Safe Enemy Was A Headless

My Body Seems A Mere Encumbrance To Me; An Imbecillic Wagon, Hitched To The Horse Of Desire, Which Is The Soul.

Don't You Think That As A People, Americans Have Less Poetry, Real Poetry, In Their Souls Than Any Other Nations?

I Think The Real Reason So Many Youngsters Are Clamoring For Freedom Of Some Vague Sort, Is Because Of Unrest And Dissatisfaction With Present Conditions; I Don't Believe This Machine Age Gives Full Satisfaction In A Spiritual Way, If The Term May Be Allowed.

There Comes, Even To Kings, The Time Of Great Weariness. Then The Gold Of The Throne Is Brass, The Silk Of The Palace Becomes Drab. The Gems In The Diadem And Upon The Fingers Of The Women Sparkle Drearily Like The Ice Of White Seas; The Speech Of Men Is As The Empty Rattle Of A Jester's Bell And The Feel Comes Of Things Unreal; Even The Sun Is Copper In The Sky And The Breath Of The Green Ocean Is No Longer Fresh.

Every Twinge Of Sensation, Even Of Agony, Was A Negation Of Death.