Now The Leaves Are Falling Fast, Nurse's

A False Enchantment Can All Too Easily Last A Lifetime.

Yet No One Hears His Own Remarks As Prose.

To Me Art's Subject Is The Human Clay, / And Landscape But A Background To A Torso; / All Cezanne's Apples I Would Give Away / For One Small Goya Or A Daumier.

Routine, In An Intelligent Man, Is A Sign Of Ambition.

Encased In Talent Like A Uniform, The Rank Of Every Poet Is Well Known; They Can Amaze Us Like A Thunderstorm, Or Die So Young, Or Live For Years Alone.