In every race, in every nation, and in every clime in every period of history there is always an eager-eyed group of youthful patriots who seriously set themselves to right the wrongs done to their race or nation or . . . art or self-expression.
It's punishment to be compelled to do what one doesn't wish.
The rainbow is elusive, and its colors but the illumination of tears.
I am profoundly in the D's - discouraged, depressed, disheartened, disgusted.
Nothing will do me any good unless I learn to control this body of mine.
Didacticism is the death of art.
Willow trees are kind, Dear God. They will not bear a body on their limbs.
Every new fad or fashion at once has its denouncers from the pulpit, platform, professor's chair.
Picturesqueness is a lost art. We may expect at anytime to hear that a collar ad is blazing its electric lights atop of the largest pyramid.
I had not thought of violets of late,
The wild, shy kind that springs beneath you feet
In wistful April days.
Blue. My God! I'm so blue that if I were a dog, I'd sit on my haunches and howl and howl and howl...
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