My Poems Are Hymns Of

It Is As Unseeing To Ask What Is The Use Of Poetry As It Would Be To Ask What Is The Use Of Religion.

A Great Many People Now Reading And Writing Would Be Better Employed Keeping Rabbits.

Rhythm Is One Of The Principal Translators Between Dream And Reality. Rhythm Might Be Described As, To The World Of Sound, What Light Is To The World Of Sight. It Shapes And Gives New Meaning. Rhythm Was Described By Schopenhauer As Melody Deprived Of Its Pitch.

If Certain Critics And Poetasters Had Their Way, 'ordinary Piety' And Its Child, Dullness, Would Be The Masters Of Poetry.

The Busy Chatter Of The Heat Shrilled Like A Parakeet; And Shuddering At The Noonday Light The Dust Lay Dead And White As Powder On A Mummy's Face, Or Fawned With Simian Grace Round Booths With Many A Hard Bright Toy And Wooden Brittle Joy: The Cap And Bells Of Time The Clown That, Jangling, Whistled Down Young Cherubs Hidden In The Guise Of Every Bird That Flies; And Star-bright Masks For Youth To Wear, Lest Any Dream That Fare Bright Pilgrim Past Our Ken, Should See Hints Of Reality.