I Live, I Burn With Life, I

Life Is But A Web Spun Of Ghosts And Dreams And Illusions.

My Body Seems A Mere Encumbrance To Me; An Imbecillic Wagon, Hitched To The Horse Of Desire, Which Is The Soul.

No Man Can Be Convinced When He Will Not.

Youngsters Of This Generation Seem Not Quite So Hazardous Except In The Way Of Mechanical Speed, Bad Liquor And Venereal Diseases.

There Comes, Even To Kings, The Time Of Great Weariness. Then The Gold Of The Throne Is Brass, The Silk Of The Palace Becomes Drab. The Gems In The Diadem And Upon The Fingers Of The Women Sparkle Drearily Like The Ice Of White Seas; The Speech Of Men Is As The Empty Rattle Of A Jester's Bell And The Feel Comes Of Things Unreal; Even The Sun Is Copper In The Sky And The Breath Of The Green Ocean Is No Longer Fresh.