Oh! To Be A Butterfly Still, Upon

All Recurring Joy Is Pain Refined.

I Must Be Mad, Or Very Tired, When The Curve Of A Blue Bay Beyond A Railroad Track Is Shrill And Sweet To Me Like The Sudden Springing Of A Tune, And The Sight Of A White Church Above Thin Trees In A City Square Amazes My Eyes As Though It Were The Parthenon.

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

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

Moon! Moon! I Am Prone Before You. Pity Me,and Drench Me In Loneliness.