"after All," As A Pretty Girl Once

Not Philosophy, After All, Not Humanity, Just Sheer Joyous Power Of Song, Is The Primal Thing In Poetry.

When Hospitality Becomes An Art It Loses Its Very Soul.

No Fine Work Can Be Done Without Concentration And Self-sacrifice And Toil And Doubt.

To Give An Accurate And Exhaustive Account Of That Period Would Need A Far Less Brilliant Pen Than Mine.

For A Young Man, Sleep Is A Sure Solvent Of Distress. There Whirls Not For Him In The Night Any So Hideous Phantasmagoria As Will Not Become, In The Clarity Of The Next Morning, A Spruce Procession For Him To Lead. Brief The Vague Horror Of His Awakening; Memory Sweeps Back To Him, And He Sees Nothing Dreadful After All. "why Not?" Is The Sun's Bright Message To Him, And "why Not Indeed?" His Answer.