Hurry Up, Please, Its Time.

Cling, Swing, Spring, Sing, Swing Up Into The Apple Tree.

Turning Wearily, As One Would Turn To Nod Goodbye To Rochefoucauld, If The Street Were Time And He As The End Of The Street.

The Progress Of An Artist Is A Continual Self-sacrifice, A Continual Extinction Of Personality.

To Do The Useful Thing, To Say The Courageous Thing, To Contemplate The Beautiful Thing: That Is Enough For One Man's Life.

This Is The Feeling For Syllable And Rhythm, Penetrating Far Below The Conscious Levels Of Thought And Feeling, Invigorating Every Word.