A Man Must Be Sacrificed Now And

In My Stiff, Brocaded Gown. With My Powdered Hair And Jeweled Fan, I Too Am A Rare Pattern.

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

My Words Are Little Jars For You To Take And Put Upon A Shelf. Their Shapes Are Quaint And Beautiful, And They Have Many Pleasant Colours And Lustres To Recommend Them. Also The Scent From Them Fills The Room With Sweetness Of Flowers And Crushed Grasses.

Freighted With Hope, Crimsoned With Joy, We Scatter The Leaves Of Our Opening Rose.

I Do Not Suppose That Anyone Not A Poet Can Realize The Agony Of Creating A Poem. Every Nerve, Even Every Muscle, Seems Strained To The Breaking Point. The Poem Will Not Be Denied; To Refuse To Write It Would Be A Greater Torture. It Tears Its Way Out Of The Brain, Splintering And Breaking Its Passage, And Leaves That Organ In The State Of A Jelly-fish When The Task Is Done.