Faults In English Prose Derive

Every Fairy Child May Keep Two Strong Ponies And Ten Sheep; All Have Houses, Each His Own, Built Of Brick Or Granite Stone; They Live On Cherries, They Run Wild I'd Love To Be A Fairy's Child.

Nine-tenths Of English Poetic Literature Is The Result Either Of Vulgar Careerism Or Of A Poet Trying To Keep His Hand In. Most Poets Are Dead By Their Late Twenties.

A Perfect Poem Is Impossible. Once It Had Been Written, The World Would End. Immature Poets Imitate; Mature Poets Steal.

Through The Window I Can See Rooks Above The Cherry-tree, Sparrows In The Violet Bed, Bramble-bush And Bumble-bee, And Old Red Bracken Smoulders Still Among Boulders On The Hill, Far Too Bright To Seem Quite Dead. But Old Death, Who Can't Forget, Waits His Time And Watches Yet, Waits And Watches By The Door.

The Difference Between You And Her (whom I To You Did Once Prefer) Is Clear Enough To Settle: She Like A Diamond Shone, But You Shine Like An Early Drop Of Dew Poised On A Red Rose Petal. The Dew-drop Carries In Its Eye Mountain And Forest, Sea And Sky, With Every Change Of Weather; Contrariwise, A Diamond Splits The Prospect Into Idle Bits That None Can Piece Together.