Once I Found Out The Secret Of

Of Pure Poetry There Are Two Kinds, That Which Mirrors The Beauty Of The World In Which Our Bodies Are, And That Which Builds The More Mysterious Kingdoms Where Geography Ends And Fairyland Begins, With Gods And Heroes At War, And The Sirens Singing Still, And Alph Going Down To The Darkness From Xanadu.

It Was The Hour When Gauze-winged Insects Are Born That Only Live For A Day.

Humanity, Let Us Say, Is Like People Packed In A Automobile Which Is Traveling Downhill Without Lights At A Terrific Speed And Driven By A Four-year-old Child. The Signposts Along The Way Are All Marked "progress."

Logic, Like Whiskey, Loses Its Beneficial Effect When Taken In Too Large Quantities.

There Is No Beauty Or Romance Or Mystery In The Sea Except For The Men That Sail Abroad Upon It, And Those Who Stay At Home And Dream Of Them.