Every Great Change Is Simple.

See, They Return; Ah, See The Tentative Movements, And The Slow Feet, The Trouble In The Pace And The Uncertain Wavering! See, They Return, One, And By One, With Fear, As Half-awakened; As If The Snow Should Hesitate And Murmur In The Wind, And Half Turn Back.

The Age Demanded An Image Of Its Accelerated Grimace, Something For The Modern Stage, Not, At Any Rate, An Attic Grace.

Wars Are Made To Make Debt.

One Discards Rhyme, Not Because One Is Incapable Of Rhyming Neat, Fleet, Sweet, Meet, Treat, Eat, Feet But Because There Are Certain Emotions Or Energies Which Are Nor Represented By The Over-familiar Devices Or Patterns.

The Eyes Of This Dead Lady Speak To Me For Here Was Love, Was Not To Be Drowned Out. And Here Desire, Not To Be Kissed Away. The Eyes Of This Dead Lady Speak To Me.