It Is An Ancient Story Yet Is

And Over The Pond Are Sailing Two Swans All White As Snow; Sweet Voices Mysteriously Wailing Pierce Through Me As Onward They Go. They Sail Along, And A Ringing Sweet Melody Rises On High; And When The Swans Begin Singing, They Presently Must Die.

Whether A Revolution Succeeds Or Fails People Of Great Hearts Will Always Be Sacrificed To It.

There Is No Sixth Commandment In Art. The Poet Is Entitled To Lay His Hands On Whatever Material He Finds Necessary For His Work.

The Stones Here Speak To Me, And I Know Their Mute Language. Also, They Seem Deeply To Feel What I Think. So A Broken Column Of The Old Roman Times, An Old Tower Of Lombardy, A Weather- Beaten Gothic Piece Of A Pillar Understands Me Well. But I Am A Ruin Myself, Wandering Among Ruins.

It Must Require An Inordinate Share Of Vanity And Presumption, Too, After Enjoying So Much That Is Good And Beautiful On Earth, To Ask The Lord For Immortality In Addition To It All.