And In The Mean Time My Songs

The Apparition Of These Faces In The Crowd; Petals On A Wet Black Bough.

Artists Are The Antennae Of The Race, But The Bullet-headed Many Will Never Learn To Trust The Great Artists.

The Garden En Robe De Parade. - Samain Like A Skein Of Loose Silk Blown Against A Wall She Walks By The Railing Of A Path In Kensington Gardens, And She Is Dying Piece-meal Of A Sort Of Emotional Anaemia. And Round About There Is A Rabble Of The Filthy, Sturdy, Unkillable Infants Of The Very Poor. They Shall Inherit The Earth. In Her Is The End Of Breeding. Her Boredom Is Exquisite And Excessive. She Would Like Some One To Speak To Her, And Is Almost Afraid That I Will Commit That Indiscretion.

Use No Superfluous Word, No Adjective, Which Does Not Reveal Something. Don't Use Such An Expression As 'dim Land Of Peace.' It Dulls The Image. It Mixes An Abstraction With The Concrete. It Comes From The Writer's Not Realizing That The Natural Object Is Always The Adequate Symbol. Go In Fear Of Abstraction.

The Intellect Is A Very Nice Whirligig Toy, But How People Take It Seriously Is More Than I Can Understand.