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.
I had not thought of violets of late, The wild, shy kind that springs beneath you feet In wistful April days.
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.
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...
