I Do Not Know The Meaning Of

Poverty Sits By The Cradle Of All Our Great Men And Rocks All Of Them To Manhood.

Don't Send A Poet To London.

Woman Is At Once Apple And Serpent.

Sweet May Hath Come To Love Us, Flowers, Trees, Their Blossoms Don; And Through The Blue Heavens Above Us The Very Clouds Move On.

You Talk Of Our Having An Idea; We Do Not Have An Idea. The Idea Has Us, And Martyrs Us, And Scourges Us, And Drives Us Into The Arena To Fight And Die For It, Whether We Want To Or Not.