Fifteen Millions Of Soldiers With Popguns And

You Are Ice And Fire The Touch Of You Burns My Hands Like Snow.

Moon! Moon! I Am Prone Before You. Pity Me,and Drench Me In Loneliness.

Great Emotion Always Tends To Become Rhythmic, And Out Of That Tendency The Forms Of Art Have Been Evolved. Art Becomes Artificial Only When The Forms Take Precedence Over The Emotion.

Polyphonic Prose Is A Kind Of Free Verse, Except That It Is Still Freer. Polyphonic Makes Full Use Of Cadence, Rime, Alliteration, Assonance.

May Is Much Sunshine Through Small Leaves.