Progress Is The Law Of Life: Man

Truth Is Truth Howe'er It Strike.

Sappho Survives, Because We Sing Her Songs; And Eschylus, Because We Read His Plays!

That Moment She Was Mine, Mine, Fair, Perfectly Pure And Good: I Found A Thing To Do, And All Her Hair In One Long Yellow String I Wound Three Times Her Little Throat Around, And Strangled Her. No Pain Felt She; I Am Quite Sure She Felt No Pain. As A Shut Bud That Holds A Bee, I Warily Oped Her Lids: Again Laughed The Blue Eyes Without A Stain. And I Untightened The Next Tress About Her Neck; Her Cheek Once More Blushed Bright Beneath My Burning Kiss . . .

Once More On My Adventure Brave And New.

To Me At Least Was Never Evening Yet, But Seemed Far Beautifuller Than Its Day.