If I Lie Down On

Fourteen-year-old, Why Must You Giggle And Dote, Fourteen-year-old, Why Are You Such A Goat? I'm Fourteen Years Old, That Is The Reason, I Giggle And Dote In Season.

But One Wants The Idea Of Death, You Know, As Something Large And Unknowable, Something That Allows A Person To Stretch Himself Out. Especially One Wants It If One Is Tired. Or Perhaps What One Wants Is Simply A Release From Sensation, From All Consciousness For Ever.

There Can Be No Good Art That Is International. Art To Be Vigorous And Gesund Must Use The Material At Hand.

Why Does My Muse Only Speak When She Is Uhnhappy? She Does Not, I Only Listen When I Am Unhappy.

Truth Is Far And Flat, And Fancy Is Fiery; And Truth Is Cold, And People Feel The Cold, And They May Wrap Themselves Against It In Fancies That Are Fiery, But They Should Not Call Them Facts; And, Generally, Poets Do Not; They Are Shrewd, They Feel The Cold, Too, But They Know A Hawk From A Handsaw, A Fact From A Fancy, As None Knows Better.