'tis The White Stag, Fame,

Until You Know Who Has Lent What To Whom, You Know Nothing Whatever Of Politics, You Know Nothing Whatever Of History, You Know Nothing Of International Wrangles.

The Apparition Of These Faces In The Crowd; Petals On A Wet Black Bough.

The Flavors Of The Peach And The Apricot Are Not Lost From Generation To Generation, Neither Are They Transmitted By Book Learning. The Mystic Tradition, Any Mystic Tradition, Is Of A Similar Nature, That Is, It Is Dependent On Direct Perception, A 'knowledge' As Permanent As The Faculty For Receiving It.

Humanity Is The Rich Effluvium, It Is The Waste And The Manure And The Soil, And From It Grows The Tree Of The Arts.

Literature Is News That Stays News.