I Don't Really Feel My

To Know Only One Thing Well Is To Have A Barbaric Mind: Civilization Implies The Graceful Relation Of All Varieties Of Experience To A Central Humane System Of Thought. The Present Age Is Peculiarly Barbaric: Introduce, Say, A Hebrew Scholar To An Ichthyologist Or An Authority On Danish Place Names And The Pair Of Them Would Have No Single Topic In Common But The Weather Or The War (if There Happened To Be A War In Progress, Which Is Usual In This Barbaric Age).

I Was Last In Rome In Ad 540 When It Was Full Of Goths And Their Heavy Horses. It Has Changed A Great Deal Since Then.

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

The Sap Of Spring In The Young Wood A-stir Will Celebrate With Green The Mother, And Every Song-bird Shout Awhile For Her; But We Are Gifted, Even In November Rawest Of Seasons, With So Huge A Sense Of Her Nakedly Worn Magnificence We Forget Cruelty And Past Betrayal, Heedless Of Where The Next Bright Bolt May Fall.

Abstract Reason, Formerly The Servant Of Practical Human Reasons, Has Everywhere Become Its Master, And Denies Poetry Any Excuse For Existence. Though Philosophers Like To Define Poetry As Irrational Fancy, For Us It Is Practical, Humorous, Reasonable Way Of Being Ourselves. Of Never Acquiescing In A Fraud; Of Never Accepting The Secondary-rate In Poetry, Painting, Music, Love, Friends. Of Safeguarding Our Poetic Institutions Against The Encroachments Of Mechanized, Insensate, Inhumane, Abstract Rationality.