Why shouldn't we, so generally addicted to the gigantic, at last have some small works of art, some short poems, short pieces of music [...], some intimate, low-voiced, and delicate things in our mostly huge and roaring, glaring world?
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Why shouldn't we, so generally addicted to the gigantic, at last have some small works of art, some short poems, short pieces of music [...], some intimate, low-voiced, and delicate things in our mostly huge and roaring, glaring world?
Being a poet is one of the unhealthier jobs--no regular hours, so many temptations!
Insomnia, perhaps she's a daytime sleeper.
If after I read a poem the world looks like that poem for 24 hours or so I'm sure it's a good one, and the same goes for paintings.
The armored cars of dreams, contrived to let us do so many a dangerous thing.
I knew that nothing stranger
had ever happened, that nothing
stranger could ever happen.
Think of the long trip home. Should we have stayed home and thought of here? Where should we be today?
Oh, must we dream our dreams
and have them, too?
I was made at right angles to the world
and I see it so. I can only see it so.
Hoping to live days of greater happiness, I forget that days of less happiness are passing by.