So Vast Is Art, So Narrow Human

But Those Who Cannot Write, And Those Who Can, All Rhyme, And Scrawl, And Scribble, To A Man.

Not To Go Back Is Somewhat To Advance, And Men Must Walk, At Least, Before They Dance.

Die Of A Rose In Aromatic Pain.

Women Use Lovers As They Do Cards; They Play With Them A While, And When They Have Got All They Can By Them, Throw Them Away, Call For New Ones, And Then Perhaps Lose By The New All They Got By The Old Ones.

Fix'd Like A Plant On His Peculiar Spot, To Draw Nutrition, Propagate And Rot.