What The Man-moth Fears Most He Must

Icebergs Behoove The Soul (both Being Self-made From Elements Least Visible) To See Themselves: Fleshed, Fair, Erected, Indivisible.

Hoping To Live Days Of Greater Happiness, I Forget That Days Of Less Happiness Are Passing By.

What One Seems To Want In Art, In Experiencing It, Is The Same Thing That Is Necessary For Its Creation, A Self-forgetful, Perfectly Useless Concentration.

And As To Experience-well, Think How Little Some Good Poets Have Had, Or How Much Some Bad Ones Have.

All The Untidyactivity Continues, Awful But Cheerful.