Your Work Is Carved Out Of Agony

But Childhood Prolonged, Cannot Remain A Fairyland. It Becomes A Hell.

... How Much Of Our Inner Substance Is It Good For Us To Give To Public Griefs? The Whole Modern Tendency To Agonize Over The Suffering Of The Entire Globe Is Surely Something New.

Song, Like A Wing, Tears Through My Breast, My Side, And Madness Chooses Out My Voice Again, Again.

Poetry Is Often Generations In Advance Of The Thought Of Its Time.

Up From The Bronze, I Saw Water Without A Flaw Rush To Its Rest In Air Reach To Its Rest, And Fall.