Life Is A Stream On Which We

Happiness, To Some, Elation; Is, To Others, Mere Stagnation.

To Understand Vers Libre, One Must Abandon All Desire To Find In It The Even Rhythm Of Metrical Feet. One Must Allow The Lines To Flow As They Will When Read Aloud By An Intelligent Reader.

May Is Much Sunshine Through Small Leaves.

All Recurring Joy Is Pain Refined.

In My Stiff, Brocaded Gown. With My Powdered Hair And Jeweled Fan, I Too Am A Rare Pattern.