A World Ends When Its

Journalism Wishes To Tell What It Is That Has Happened Everywhere As Though The Same Things Had Happened For Every Man. Poetry Wishes To Say What It Is Like For Any Man To Be Himself In The Presence Of A Particular Occurrence As Though Only He Were Alone There.

Around, Around The Sun We Go: The Moon Goes Round The Earth. We Do Not Die Of Death: We Die Of Vertigo.

Autumn Is The American Season. In Europe The Leaves Turn Yellow Or Brown, And Fall. Here They Take Fire On The Trees And Hang There Flaming. We Think This Frost-fire Is A Portent Somehow: A Promise That The Continent Has Given Us. Life, Too, We Think, Is Capable Of Taking Fire In This Country; Of Creating Beauty Never Seen.

We Have No Choice But To Be Guilty. God Is Unthinkable If We Are Innocent.

Beauty Is That Medusa's Head Which Men Go Armed To Seek And Sever, And Dead Will Starve And Sting Forever.