Modern Poets Are Bells Of

Bricks Without Straw Are More Easily Made Than Imagination Without Memories.

And Little He Knew Of The Things That Ink May Do, How It Can Mark A Dead Man's Thought For The Wonder Of Later Years, And Tell Of Happening That Are Gone Clean Away, And Be A Voice For Us Out Of The Dark Of Time, And Save Many A Fragile Thing From The Pounding Of Heavy Ages; Or Carry To Us, Over The Rolling Centuries, Even A Song From Lips Long Dead On Forgotten Hills.

Come With Me, Ladies And Gentlemen Who Are In Any Wise Weary Of London: Come With Me: And Those That Tire At All Of The World We Know: For We Have New Worlds Here.

Modern Poets Are Bells Of Lead. They Should Tinkle Melodiously But Usually They Just Klunk.

It Has Always Struck Me That One Of The Readiest Ways Of Estimating A Country's Regard For Law Is To Notice What Arms The Officers Of The Law Are Carrying: In England It Is Little Batons, In France Swords, In Many Countries Revolvers, And In Russia The Police Used To Have Artillery.