I Have Great Hopes That We Shall

For A Man To Become A Poet (witness Petrarch And Dante), He Must Be In Love, Or Miserable.

But What Is Hope? Nothing But The Paint On The Face Of Existence; The Least Touch Of Truth Rubs It Off, And Then We See What A Hollow-cheeked Harlot We Have Got Hold Of.

The Poetry Of Speech.

I Doubt Sometimes Whether A Quiet And Unagitated Life Would Have Suited Me - Yet I Sometimes Long For It.

Well, Well, The World Must Turn Upon Its Axis, And All Mankind Turn With It, Heads Or Tails, And Live And Die, Make Love And Pay Our Taxes, And As The Veering Winds Shift, Shift Our Sails.