I Know That A Creed

Great Emotion Always Tends To Become Rhythmic, And Out Of That Tendency The Forms Of Art Have Been Evolved. Art Becomes Artificial Only When The Forms Take Precedence Over The Emotion.

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

Poetry, Far More Than Fiction, Reveals The Soul Of Humanity.

All Recurring Joy Is Pain Refined.

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