When The Poet Makes His

In The Corridors Under Tehre Is Nothing But Sleep. And Stiller Than Ever On Orchard Boughs They Keep Tryst With The Moon, And Deep Is The Silence, Deep On Moon-washed Apples Of Wonder.

Poetry Being The Sign Of That Which All Men Desire, Even Though The Desire Be Unconscious, Intensity Of Life Or Completeness Of Experience, The Universality Of Its Appeal Is A Matter Of Course.

A Lyric, It Is True, Is The Expression Of Personal Emotion, But Then So Is All Poetry, And To Suppose That There Are Several Kinds Of Poetry, Differing From Each Other In Essence, Is To Be Deceived By Wholly Artificial Divisions Which Have No Real Being.

The Poet's Perfect Expression Is The Token Of A Perfect Experience; What He Says In The Best Possible Way He Has Felt In The Best Possible Way, That Is, Completely.

If It Is An Imperfect Word, No External Circumstance Can Heighten Its Value As Poetry.