All Craftsmen Share A Knowledge. They Have

Everywhere Bees Go Racing With The Hours, / For Every Bee Becomes A Drunken Lover, / Standing Upon His Head To Sup The Flowers.

The True Solitary ... Will Feel That He Is Himself Only When He Is Alone; When He Is In Company He Will Feel That He Perjures Himself, Prostitutes Himself To The Exactions Of Others; He Will Feel That Time Spent In Company Is Time Lost; He Will Be Conscious Only Of His Impatience To Get Back To His True Life.

My Garden All Is Overblown With Roses,/ My Spirit All Is Overblown With Rhyme.

Days I Enjoy Are Days When Nothing Happens, When I Have No Engagements Written On My Block, When No One Comes To Disturb My Inward Peace, When No One Comes To Take Me Away From Myself And Turn Me Into A Patchwork, A Jig-saw Puzzle, A Broken Mirror That Once Gave A Whole Reflection, Being So Contrived That It Takes Too Long A Time To Get Myself Back To Myself When They Have Gone.

The Public, As A Whole, Finds Reassurance In Longevity, And, After The Necessary Interlude Of Reaction, Is Disposed To Recognize Extreme Old Age As A Sign Of Excellence. The Long-liver Has Triumphed Over At Least One Of Man's Initial Handicaps: The Brevity Of Life.