It Is The Custom When Praising A

Swinburne Was An Absurd Character. He Was A Bird Of Showy Strut And Plumage. One Could Not But Admire His Glorious Feathers; But, As Soon As He Began To Moult ... One Saw How Very Little Body There Was Underneath.

We Cannot Get Happiness By Striving After It, And Yet With An Effort We Can Impart It.

It Is Almost Impossible To Remember How Tragic A Place The World Is When One Is Playing Golf.

The Lovers Of Beauty Must Unite In A League, And Carry Out Some Great Propagandist Work Through The Country. They Must Demand The Extermination Of The Bulldog And The Dismantling Of The Cheap Villa, Both Of Which Are Responsible For A Deal Of Our Contentment Amid Ugliness.

W. B. Yeats Has Created, If Not A New World, A New Star. He Is Not A Reporter Of Life As It Is, To The Extent That Shakespeare Or Browning Is. One Is Not Quite Certain That His Kingdom Is Of The Green Earth. He Is Like A Man Who Has Seen The Earth Not Directly But In A Crystal.