The Only Society I Like Is Rough

Old Year! Upon The Stage Of Time You Stand To Bow Your Last Adieu; A Moment, And The Prompter's Chime Will Ring The Curtain Down On You.

Then You've A Hunch What The Music Meant . . . Hunger And Night And The Stars.

I Like To Think That When I Fall, A Rain-drop In Death's Shoreless Sea, This Shelf Of Books Along The Wall, Beside My Bed, Will Mourn For Me.

Write Verse, Not Poetry. The Public Wants Verse. If You Have A Talent For Poetry, Then Don't By Any Means Mother It, But Try Your Hand At Verse.

Our Breath Is Brief, And Being So Let's Make Our Heaven Here Below, And Lavish Kindness As We Go.