Time! Joyless Emblem Of The Greed Of

To-night When The Full-bellied Moon Swallows The Stars. Grant That I Know.

In My Stiff, Brocaded Gown. With My Powdered Hair And Jeweled Fan, I Too Am A Rare Pattern.

Oh! To Be A Flower Nodding In The Sun, Bending, Then Upspringing As The Breezes Run.

Not A Softness Anywhere About Me, Only Whalebone And Brocade.

I Do Not Suppose That Anyone Not A Poet Can Realize The Agony Of Creating A Poem. Every Nerve, Even Every Muscle, Seems Strained To The Breaking Point. The Poem Will Not Be Denied; To Refuse To Write It Would Be A Greater Torture. It Tears Its Way Out Of The Brain, Splintering And Breaking Its Passage, And Leaves That Organ In The State Of A Jelly-fish When The Task Is Done.