No More Pronouncements On Lousy Verse. No

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

The Fact, And The Intuition Or Logic About The Fact, Are Severe Coordinates In Fiction. In The Short Story They Must Cross With Hair-line Precision.

The Terrible Beast, That No One May Understand, Came To My Side, And Put Down His Head In Love.

... How Much Of Our Inner Substance Is It Good For Us To Give To Public Griefs? The Whole Modern Tendency To Agonize Over The Suffering Of The Entire Globe Is Surely Something New.

...in A Time Lacking In Truth And Certainty And Filled With Anguish And Despair, No Woman Should Be Shamefaced In Attempting To Give Back To The World, Through Her Work, A Portion Of Its Lost Heart.