The Art Of One Period Cannot Be

True Revolutions In Art Restore More Than They Destroy.

Song, Like A Wing, Tears Through My Breast, My Side, And Madness Chooses Out My Voice Again, Again.

It Is Almost Impossible For The Poetess, Once Laurelled, To Take Off The Crown For Good Or To Reject Values And Taste Of Those Who Tender It.

The Women Rest Their Tired Half-healed Hearts; They Are Almost Well.

The Measured Blood Beats Out The Year's Delay.