I Am Patient With Stupidity But Not

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.

Why Not Be Oneself? That Is The Whole Secret Of A Successful Appearance. If One Is A Greyhound, Why Try To Look Like A Pekingese?

By The Time I Was Eleven Years Old, I Had Been Taught That Nature, Far From Abhorring A Vacuum, Positively Adores It.

The Poet Speaks To All Men Of That Other Life Of Theirs That They Have Smothered And Forgotten.

The Busy Chatter Of The Heat Shrilled Like A Parakeet; And Shuddering At The Noonday Light The Dust Lay Dead And White As Powder On A Mummy's Face, Or Fawned With Simian Grace Round Booths With Many A Hard Bright Toy And Wooden Brittle Joy: The Cap And Bells Of Time The Clown That, Jangling, Whistled Down Young Cherubs Hidden In The Guise Of Every Bird That Flies; And Star-bright Masks For Youth To Wear, Lest Any Dream That Fare Bright Pilgrim Past Our Ken, Should See Hints Of Reality.