If Certain Critics And Poetasters Had Their

Vulgarity Is, In Reality, Nothing But A Modern, Chic, Pert Descendant Of The Goddess Dullness.

The Great Sins And Fires Break Out Of Me Like The Terrible Leaves From The Bough In The Violent Spring. I Am A Walking Fire, I Am All Leaves.

There Is No Truth. Only Points Of View.

Art Is Magic, Not Logic. This Craze For The Logical Spirit In Irrational Shape Is Part Of The Present Harmful Mania For Uniformity.

But I Saw The Little-ant Men As They Ran Carrying The World's Weight Of The World's Filth And The Filth In The Heart Of Man-- Compressed Till Those Lusts And Greeds Had A Greater Heat Than That Of The Sun.