By The Time I Was Eleven Years

Winter Is The Time For Comfort, For Good Food And Warmth, For The Touch Of A Friendly Hand And For A Talk Beside The Fire: It Is The Time For Home.

The Busy Chatter Of The Heat Shrilled Like A Parakeet; And Shuddering At The Noonday Light The Dust Lay Dead And White As Powder On A Mummy's Face, Or Fawned With Simian Grace Round Booths With Many A Hard Bright Toy And Wooden Brittle Joy: The Cap And Bells Of Time The Clown That, Jangling, Whistled Down Young Cherubs Hidden In The Guise Of Every Bird That Flies; And Star-bright Masks For Youth To Wear, Lest Any Dream That Fare Bright Pilgrim Past Our Ken, Should See Hints Of Reality.

What An Artist Is For Is To Tell Us What We See But Do Not Know That We See.

The Great Sins And Fires Break Out Of Me Like The Terrible Leaves From The Bough In The Violent Spring. I Am A Walking Fire, I Am All Leaves.

What The Reporters Are Like! They Are Mad With Excitement At The Thought Of My Approaching Demise. Kind Sister Farquhar, My Nurse, Spends Much Of Her Time In Throwing Them Downstairs. But One Got In The Other Day, And Asked Me If I Mind The Fact That I Must Die.