I Confess That I Do

Poetry, Even When Apparently Most Fantastic, Is Always A Revolt Against Artifice, A Revolt, In A Sense, Against Actuality.

All Human History Moves Towards One Great Goal

I Am Not Likely To Die Of Bashfulness But Neither Am I Prepared To Be Crucified To Attest The Perfection Of My Art. I Dislike To Hear Of Any Stray Heroics On The Prowl For Me.

I Came In At Half Past Eleven. Since Then I Have Been Sitting In An Easy Chair Like A Fool. I Could Do Nothing. I Hear Nothing But Your Voice. I Am Like A Fool Hearing You Call Me 'dear.' I Offended Two Men Today By Leaving Them Coolly. I Wanted To Hear Your Voice, Not Theirs. When I Am With You I Leave Aside My Contemptuous, Suspicious Nature. I Wish I Felt Your Head On My Shoulder.

The Intellectual Imagination! With Me All Or Not At All. Non Serviam!