The May Of Life Blooms Once And

You Worthy Critics, Or Whatever You May Call Yourselves, Are Ashamed Or Afraid Of The Momentary And Passing Madness Which Is Found In All Real Creators, The Longer Or Shorter Duration Of Which Distinguishes The Thinking Artist From The Dreamer. Hence Your Complaints Of Unfruitfulness, For You Reject Too Soon And Discriminate Too Severely.

Man Is Never So Authentically Himself As When At Play.

Like A Dart The Present Glances, Silent Stands The Past Sublime.

Arrow-swift The Present Sweepeth, And Motionless Forever Stands The Past.

Sentimental Poetry Differs From Naive Poetry In That It Relates The Real State At Which The Latter Stops To Ideas And Applies Ideas To That Reality.