Immediate Work, Even Poor, Is Worth More

I Have Cultivated My Hysteria With Pleasure And Terror.

The Form Of A Town Changes More Swiftly Alas! Than The Heart Of A Mortal.

Genius Is Simply Childhood, Rediscovered By An Act Of Will.

Above My Cradle Loomed The Bookcase Where/ Latin Ashes And The Dust Of Greece/ Mingled With Novels, History, And Verse/ In One Dark Babel. I Was Folio-high/ When I First Heard The Voices.

Nothing Is As Tedious As The Limping Days, When Snowdrifts Yearly Cover All The Ways, And Ennui, Sour Fruit Of Incurious Gloom, Assumes Control Of Fate’s Immortal Loom