[history Is] That Terrible Mill In Which

Rhythm Is One Of The Principal Translators Between Dream And Reality.

The Last Faint Spark In The Self-murdered Heart, The Wounds Of The Sad Uncomprehending Dark, The Wounds Of The Baited Bear,-- The Blind And Weeping Bear Whom The Keepers Beat On His Helpless Flesh . . . The Tears Of The Hunted Hare.

... All Ugliness Passes, And Beauty Endures, Excepting Of The Skin.

Still Falls The Rain - Dark As The World Of Man, Black As Our Loss - Blind As The Nineteen Hundred And Forty Nails Upon The Cross.

I'm Not The Man To Baulk At A Low Smell, I'm Not The Man To Insist On Asphodel. This Sounds Like A He-fellow, Don't You Think? It Sounds Like That. I Belch, I Bawl, I Drink.