There Is No Reason Why The Same

The Rustling Of The Silk Is Discontinued, Dust Drifts Over The Courtyard, There Is Not Sound Of Footfall, And The Leaves Scurry Into Heaps And Lie Still, And She The Rejoicer Of The Heart Is Beneath Them: A Wet Leaf That Clings To The Threshold.

Humanity Is The Rich Effluvium, It Is The Waste And The Manure And The Soil, And From It Grows The Tree Of The Arts.

A Classic Is Classic Not Because It Conforms To Certain Structural Rules, Or Fits Certain Definitions It Is Classic Because Of A Certain Eternal And Irrepressible Freshness.

It Ought To Be Illegal For An Artist To Marry. If The Artist Must Marry Let Him Find Someone More Interested In Art, Or His Art, Or The Artist Part Of Him, Than In Him. After Which Let Them Take Tea Together Three Times A Week.

One Discards Rhyme, Not Because One Is Incapable Of Rhyming Neat, Fleet, Sweet, Meet, Treat, Eat, Feet But Because There Are Certain Emotions Or Energies Which Are Nor Represented By The Over-familiar Devices Or Patterns.