For Poetry The Idea Is

Unquiet Souls. In The Dark Fermentation Of Earth, In The Never Idle Workshop Of Nature, In The Eternal Movement, Yea Shall Find Yourselves Again.

Now The Great Winds Shoreward Blow Now The Salt Tides Seaward Flow Now The Wild White Horses Play Champ And Chafe And Toss In The Spray.

Poetry Interprets In Two Ways: It Interprets By Expressing, With Magical Felicity, The Physiognomy And Movements Of The Outward World; And It Interprets By Expressing, With Inspired Conviction, The Ideas And Laws Of The Inward World Of Man's Moral And Spiritual Nature. In Other Words, Poetry Is Interpretative Both By Having Natural Magic In It, And By Having Moral Profundity.

The Working-class Is Now Issuing From Its Hiding-place To Assert An Englishman's Heaven-born Privilege Of Doing As He Likes, And Is Beginning To Perplex Us By Marching Where It Likes, Meeting Where It Likes, Bawling What It Likes, Breaking What It Likes.

On The Breast Of That Huge Mississippi Of Falsehood Called History, A Foam-bell More Or Less Is No Consequence.