Today I Felt Pass Over Me A

The Idea Which Man Forms Of Beauty Imprints Itself Throughout His Attire, Rumples Or Stiffens His Garments, Rounds Off Or Aligns His Gestures, And, Finally, Even Subtly Penetrates The Features Of His Face.

Wine Transforms Moles Into Eagles.

Today I Felt Pass Over Me A Breath Of Wind From The Wings Of Madness.

Poetry Has No Goal Other Than Itself; It Can Have No Other, And No Poem Will Be So Great, So Noble, So Truly Worthy Of The Name Of Poem, Than One Written Uniquely For The Pleasure Of Writing A Poem.

Today I Had A Strange Warning. I Felt The Wind Of Insanity Brush My Mind.