The Fatal Futility Of Fact.

I Recall My Fleeting Instants In Savannah As The Taste Of A Cup Charged To The Brim.

You Seemed To Me To Be Soaring Far Up In The Blue - To Be Sailing In The Bright Light, Over The Heads Of Men. Suddenly Some One Tosses Up A Faded Rosebud - A Missile That Should Never Have Reached You - And Down You Drop To The Ground.

It's Never Permitted To Be Surprised At The Aberrations Of Born Fools.

She Is Written In A Foreign Tongue.

There Are Moods In Which One Feels The Impulse To Enter A Tacit Protest Against Too Gross An Appetite For Pure Aesthetics In This Starving And Sinning World. One Turns Half Away, Musingly, From Certain Beautiful Useless Things.