MY SONGS ABE the same as are the spring flowers, they come from you. Yet I bring these to you as my own. You smile and accept them, and you are glad at my joy of pride. If my song flowers are frail and they fade and drop in the dust, I shall never grieve. For absence is not loss in your hand, and the fugitive moments that blossom in beauty are kept ever fresh in your wreath.
WHEN MY mind was released from the black cavern of oblivion and woke up into an intolerable surprise it found itself at the crater of a volcanic hell-fire that spouted forth a stifling fume of insult to Man; it witnessed the long-drawn suicidal agony of the Time-spirit passing through convulsions of a monstrous deformity worse than death. On its one side a defiant savagery and the growl of homicidal drunkenness, on the other timid powers tied to the load of their carefully guarded hoardings, meekly settling down to a silent safety of acquiescence after miscalculated bursts of impatience. At the old nations' council-chambers plans and protests are pressed flat between the tight-shut prudent lips. In the meanwhile across the sky rush with their blazing blasphemy the soulless swarms of vulture-machines carrying their missiles of ravenous passion for human entrails. Give me power, O awful Judge, sitting on the throne of Eternity, give me a voice of thunder, that I may hurl imprecation upon this cannibal whose gruesome hunger spares neither women nor children, that my words of reproach may ever rock upon the heart-throbs of a history humiliated by itself, till this age choked and chained finds the bed of its final rest in its ashes.
