That Is Not It At

The Good Poet Welds His Theft Into A Whole Of Feeling Which Is Unique, Utterly Different From That From Which It Was Torn; The Bad Poet Throws It Into Something Which Has No Cohesion.

For He Will Do As He Do Do And There's No Doing Anything About It!

The Progress Of An Artist Is A Continual Self-sacrifice, A Continual Extinction Of Personality.

But It Seems That Something Has Happened That Has Never Happened Before: Though We Know Not Just When, Or Why, Or How, Or Where.

No! I Am Not Prince Hamlet, Nor Was Meant To Be: Am An Attendant Lord, One That Will Do To Swell A Progress, Start A Scene Or Two, Advise The Prince.