A Champion Of The Workingman Has Never

Never Discuss The Poem You Contemplate Writing. It's Like Turning On The Outside Spigot. It Takes All The Pressure Off The Upstairs Bathroom.

Poetry Begins In Trivial Metaphors, Pretty Metaphors, "grace" Metaphors, And Goes On To The Profoundest Thinking That We Have. Poetry Provides The One Permissible Way Of Saying One Thing And Meaning Another. People Say, "why Don’t You Say What You Mean?" We Never Do That, Do We, Being All Of Us Too Much Poets. We Like To Talk In Parables And In Hints And In Indirections - Whether From Diffidence Or Some Other Instinct.

The Sun Was Warm But The Wind Was Chill. You Know How It Is With An April Day. When The Sun Is Out And The Wind Is Still, You're One Month On In The Middle Of May. But If You So Much As Dare To Speak, A Cloud Come Over The Sunlit Arch, And Wind Comes Off A Frozen Peak, And You're Two Months Back In The Middle Of March.

Modern Poets Talk Against Business, Poor Things, But All Of Us Write For Money. Beginners Are Subjected To Trial By Market.

A Champion Of The Workingman Has Never Been Known To Die Of Overwork.