Wars In Old Times Were

It Ought To Be Illegal For An Artist To Marry. If The Artist Must Marry Let Him Find Someone More Interested In Art, Or His Art, Or The Artist Part Of Him, Than In Him. After Which Let Them Take Tea Together Three Times A Week.

The Man Who Fears War And Squats Opposing My Words For Stour, Hath No Blood Of Crimson But Is Fit Only To Rot In Womanish Peace

Rhythm Is Form Cut Into Time.

A People That Grows Accustomed To Sloppy Writing Is A People In The Process Of Losing Grip On Its Empire And On Itself.

You Have Been Second Always. Tragical? No. You Preferred It To The Usual Thing: One Dull Man, Dulling And Uxorious, One Average Mind- With One Thought Less, Each Year.