A Single Conversation Across The Table With

Art Is Long, And Time Is Fleeting.

For It Is The Fate Of A Woman Long To Be Patient And Silent, To Wait Like A Ghost That Is Speechless, Till Some Questioning Voice Dissolves The Spell Of Its Silence. Hence Is The Inner Life Of So Many Suffering Women Sunless And Silent And Deep, Like Subterranean Rivers Runnng Through Caverns Of Darkness.

Look Upon The Errors Of Others In Sorrow, Not In Anger.

Southward With Fleet Of Ice Sailed The Corsair Death; Wild And Fast Blew The Blast, And The East-wind Was His Breath.

Every Great Poem Is In Itself Limited By Necessity, But In Its Suggestions Unlimited And Infinite.