I took out my pick one night and started the mental manual-labor. At the end I had extracted six of the most startling, clutching, beautiful lines of verse ever written in English. Perhaps the twisted dreariness of their surroundings made them stand out more vividly, gave them a false value to me. I shall let the reader judge.
And life was just an orchid that was dead.
Her hidden smile was full of little breasts.
Gnawed by the mirage of an opening night.
And a fawn-colored laugh sucks in the night.
And like peach-blossoms blown across the wind,
Her white words made the hour seem cool and kind.
Six lines almost lost in the mirage the poet speaks off, but well worth finding.
M. B.
Patriotism is a superstition artificially created and maintained through a net-work of lies and falsehoods; a superstition that robs man of his self-respect and dignity, and increases his arrogance and self-conceit.—Emma Goldman.