Unless, governor, teacher inspector, visitor, This map becomes their window and these windows...
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I think of those who were truly great. The names of those who in their lives fought for life, Who wore at their hearts the fire's center.
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Surely Shakespeare is wicked, the map a bad example With ships and sun and love tempting them to steal—
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History is the ship carrying living memories to the future.
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They think how one life hums, revolves and toils, One cog in a golden singing hive:
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After the first powerful plain manifesto The black statement of pistons, without more fuss...
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Death is another milestone on their way. With laughter on their lips and with winds blowing round them...
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Critics of visual arts and of music describe in words—that is to say, a system of signs other than those made by brushes on canvas or chisel...
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She passes the houses which humbly crowd outside, The gasworks and at last the heavy page...
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Consider his life which was valueless In terms of employment, hotel ledgers, news files....
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