Look At This Poet William

The Bad Poet Is A Toady Mimicking Nature.

So Much Of Our Lives Is Given Over To The Consideration Of Our Imperfections That There Is No Time To Improve Our Imaginary Virtues. The Truth Is We Only Perfect Our Vices, And Man Is A Worse Creature When He Dies Than He Was When He Was Born.

Who Has Enough Credit In This World To Pay For His Mistakes?

No People Require Maxims So Much As The American. The Reason Is Obvious: The Country Is So Vast, The People Always Going Somewhere, From Oregon Apple Valley To Boreal New England, That We Do Not Know Whether To Be Temperate Orchards Or Sterile Climate.

We Are Always Talking About Being Together, And Yet Whatever We Invent Destroys The Family, And Makes Us Wild, Touchless Beasts Feeding On Technicolor Prairies And Rivers.