Too Much Is Written By The Men

When, On The Still Cold Nights, He Pointed His Nose At A Star And Howled Long And Wolf-like, It Was His Ancestors, Dead And Dust, Pointing Nose At Star And Howling Down Through The Centuries And Through Him. And His Cadences Were Their Cadences, The Cadences Which Voiced Their Woe And What To Them Was The Meaning Of The Stillness, And The Cold, And Dark.

So That Was The Way. No Fair Play. Once Down, That Was The End Of You.

The Human Race Is Doomed To Sink Back Farther And Farther Into The Primitive Night Ere Again It Begins Its Bloody Climb Upward To Civilization.

Cruelty, As A Fine Art, Has Attained Its Perfect Flower In The Trained-animal World.

He Was Mastered By The Sheer Surging Of Life, The Tidal Wave Of Being, The Perfect Joy Of Each Separate Muscle, Joint, And Sinew In That It Was Everything That Was Not Death, That It Was Aglow And Rampant, Expressing Itself In Movement, Flying Exultantly Under The Stars.