Habits Are Happiness Of A Sort...

I Shook Myself; I Was Dreaming. As I Went To Bed The Words Of The Eighth-grade Class's Teacher, When The Class Got To Evangeline , Kept Echoing In My Ears: "we're Coming To A Long Poem Now, Boys And Girls. Now Don't Be Babies And Start Counting The Pages." I Lay There Like A Baby, Counting The Pages Over And Over, Counting The Pages.

Many Poets Write As If They Had Been Decerebrated, And Not Simply Lobotomized, As A Cure For Their Melancholia.

In Heaven All Reviews Will Be Favorable; Here On Earth, The Publisher Realizes, Plausibility Demands An Occasional Bad One, Some Convincing Lump In All That Leaven, And He Accepts It Somewhat As A Theologian Accepts Evil.

Most Of The People In A War Never Fight For Even A Minute Though They Bear For Years And Die Forever. They Do Not Fight, But Only Starve, Only Suffer, Only Die: The Sum Of All This Passive Misery Is That Great Activity, War.

One Whitman Is Miracle Enough, And When He Comes Again It Will Be The End Of The World.