A Well-chosen Anthology Is A

If I Thought That Any Poem Of Mine Could Have Been Written By Anyone Else, Either A Contemporary Or A Forerunner, I Should Suppress It With A Blush; And I Should Do The Same If I Ever Found I Were Imitating Myself. Every Poem Should Be New, Unexpected, Inimitable, And Incapable Of Being Parodied.

So When I'm Killed, Don't Wait For Me, Walking The Dim Corridor; In Heaven Or Hell, Don't Wait For Me, Or You Must Wait For Evermore. You'll Find Me Buried, Living-dead In These Verses That You've Read.

As Was The Custom In Such Cases, The Pear Tree Was Charged With Murder And Sentenced To Be Uprooted And Burned.

What We Now Call "finance" Is, I Hold, An Intellectual Perversion Of What Began As Warm Human Love.

Before An Attack, The Platoon Pools All Its Available Cash And The Survivors Divide It Up Afterwards. Those Who Are Killed Can't Complain, The Wounded Would Have Given Far More Than That To Escape As They Have, And The Unwounded Regard The Money As A Consolation Prize For Still Being Here.