Poetry Is The Art Which

Happiness, For You We Walk On A Knife Edge. To The Eyes You Are A Flickering Light, To The Feet, Thin Ice That Cracks; And So May No One Touch You Who Loves You.

Holidays - Have No Pity.

For My Part, If I Consider Poetry As An Object, I Maintain That It Is Born Of The Necessity Of Adding A Vocal Sound (speech) To The Hammering Of The First Tribal Music.

There Is Poetry Even In Prose, In All The Great Prose Which Is Not Merely Utilitarian Or Didactic: There Exist Poets Who Write In Prose Or At Least In More Or Less Apparent Prose; Millions Of Poets Write Verses Which Have No Connection With Poetry.

Art Is The Production Of Objects For Consumption, To Be Used And Discarded While Waiting For A New World In Which Man Will Have Succeeded In Freeing Himself Of Everything, Even Of His Own Consciousness.