All Fled—all Done, So Lift Me On

What Do I Know Of Cultured Ways, The Gilt, The Craft And The Lie? I, Who Was Born In A Naked Land And Bred In The Open Sky. The Subtle Tongue, The Sophist Guile, They Fail When The Broadswords Sing; Rush In And Die, Dogs—i Was A Man Before I Was A King.

The Only Safe Enemy Was A Headless Enemy.

What Always Was Must Always Be.

I Have Gone Into Yesterday And Tomorrow And Both Were As Real As Today -- Which Is Like The Dreams Of Ghosts!

It Seems To Me That Many Writers, By Virtue Of Environments Of Culture, Art And Education, Slip Into Writing Because Of Their Environments.