On The Neck Of The Young Man

Freighted With Hope, Crimsoned With Joy, We Scatter The Leaves Of Our Opening Rose.

Oh! To Be A Butterfly Still, Upon A Flower, Winking With Its Painted Wings, Happy In The Hour.

Art Is Like Politics. Any Theory Carried Too Far Ends In Sterility, And Freshness Is Only Gained By Following Some Other Line.

On The Neck Of The Young Man Sparkles No Gem So Gracious As Enterprise. Youth Condemns; Maturity Condones.

Great Emotion Always Tends To Become Rhythmic, And Out Of That Tendency The Forms Of Art Have Been Evolved. Art Becomes Artificial Only When The Forms Take Precedence Over The Emotion.