All Art, In Spite Of The Struggles

I Don't Like Quintessential Certitude.

The Women Rest Their Tired Half-healed Hearts; They Are Almost Well.

But Is There Any Reason To Believe That A Woman's Spiritual Fibre Is Less Sturdy Than A Man's? Is It Not Possible For A Woman To Come To Terms With Herself If Not With The World; To Withdraw More And More, As Time Goes On, Her Own Personality From Her Productions; To Stop Childish Fears Of Death And Eschew Charming Rebellions Against Facts?

The Poem Is Always The Last Resort. In It The Poet Makes A World In Little, And Finds Peace, Even Though, Under Complete Focused Emotion, The Evocation Be Far More Bitter Than Reality, Or Far More Lovely.

I Hope That One Or Two Immortal Lyrics Will Come Out Of All This Tumbling Around.