In My Stiff, Brocaded Gown. With My

How Hard, How Desperately Hard, Is The Way Of The Experimenter In Art!

My Words Are Little Jars For You To Take And Put Upon A Shelf. Their Shapes Are Quaint And Beautiful, And They Have Many Pleasant Colours And Lustres To Recommend Them. Also The Scent From Them Fills The Room With Sweetness Of Flowers And Crushed Grasses.

All Recurring Joy Is Pain Refined.

How Much More Beautiful Is The Moon, Slanting Down The Gauffered Branches Of A Plum-tree; The Moon Wavering Across A Bed Of Tulips; The Moon, Still, Upon Your Face. You Shine, Beloved, You And The Moon. But Which Is The Reflection?

Can You See Through The Night, Woman, That You Stare So Upon It? Man, What Sparks Do Your Eyes Follow In The Smouldering Darkness?