The pleasure of great music superbly performed, the pain amounting to despair of fellow poets as they have contemplated his perfection. All of their books are present except Mr. Merrill's ''First Poems,'' which someone pinched. In black towns numberless as pores, The god at last indifferent And she no longer chaste but continent. Rich with parody and pun, particularly the last outrageous word. Anatomy is destiny, said Freud.
Soul is the brilliant hypochondriac.
Soul will cough blood and sing, and softer sing. Wrought upon a bright young person's morals I now leave to the public to condemn. Chiefly in order to make a song of them. Dear Mrs. Livingston, I want to say that I am still in a daze From yesterday afternoon. I will treasure the experience always.