If You Will Tell Me

If Technique Is Of No Interest To A Writer, I Doubt That The Writer Is An Artist.

Concurring Hands Divide Flax For Damask That When Bleached By Irish Weather Has The Silvered Chamois-leather Water-tightness Of A Skin.

I See No Reason For Calling My Work Poetry Except That There Is No Other Category In Which To Put It.

The Ocean, Under The Pulsation Of Lighthouses And Noise Of Bell Buoys, Advances As Usual, Looking As If It Were Not That Ocean In Which Dropped Things Are Bound To Sink-- In Which If They Turn And Twist, It Is Neither With Volition Nor Consciousness.

That Which Is Impossible To Force, It Is Impossible To Hinder.