Poetry is dying first. It'll be absorbed into prose sooner or later.

I suppose all great happiness is a little sad. Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses—

A sudden emptiness seemed to flow now from the windows and the great doors, endowing with complete isolation the figure of the host, who stood on the porch, his hand up in a formal gesture of farewell.

he found, as the new century gathered headway, that his thirst for gayety grew stronger.

For this is wisdom—to love and live,     To take what fate or the gods may give,     To ask no question, to make no prayer,     To kiss the lips and caress the hair,     Speed passion's ebb as we greet its flow,     To have and to hold, and, in time—let go.

the sensuous heat of early afternoon made blinding freckles on the checkered luncheon cloth.

I'm a product of a versatile mind in a restless generation with every reason to throw my mind and pen in with the radicals.

There was a midsummer restlessness abroad--early August with imprudent loves and impulsive crimes. With little more to expect from summer, one tried anxiously to live in the present--or, if there was no present, to invent one.

he was learning the rarity in a single life, of encountering true emotion.

I feel sure we are the great coming nation—yet—and she sighed—I feel my life should have drowsed away close to an older, mellower civilization, a land of greens and autumnal browns—

Modern life," began Amory again, "changes no longer century by century, but year by year, ten times faster than it ever has before—populations doubling, civilizations unified more closely with other civilizations, economic interdependence, racial questions, and—we're dawdling along. My idea is that we've got to go very much faster.

Whatever worth while comes to you, won't be through the channels you were searching last year.