The Curse Of Me And

No Good Poetry Is Ever Written In A Manner Twenty Years Old, For To Write In Such A Manner Shows Conclusively That The Writer Thinks From Books, Convention And Cliché, Not From Real Life.

But The One Thing You Should. Not Do Is To Suppose That When Something Is Wrong With The Arts, It Is Wrong With The Arts Only.

Utter Originality Is, Of Course, Out Of The Question.

The Rustling Of The Silk Is Discontinued, Dust Drifts Over The Courtyard, There Is Not Sound Of Footfall, And The Leaves Scurry Into Heaps And Lie Still, And She The Rejoicer Of The Heart Is Beneath Them: A Wet Leaf That Clings To The Threshold.

The Man Of Understanding Can No More Sit Quiet And Resigned While His Country Lets Its Literature Decay, And Lets Good Writing Meet With Contempt, Than A Good Doctor Could Sit Quiet And Contented While Some Ignorant Child Was Infecting Itself With Tuberculosis Under The Impression That It Was Merely Eating Jam Tarts.