All Great Art Contains An Element Of

Good Taste Is The Worst Vice Ever Invented.

The Busy Chatter Of The Heat Shrilled Like A Parakeet; And Shuddering At The Noonday Light The Dust Lay Dead And White As Powder On A Mummy's Face, Or Fawned With Simian Grace Round Booths With Many A Hard Bright Toy And Wooden Brittle Joy: The Cap And Bells Of Time The Clown That, Jangling, Whistled Down Young Cherubs Hidden In The Guise Of Every Bird That Flies; And Star-bright Masks For Youth To Wear, Lest Any Dream That Fare Bright Pilgrim Past Our Ken, Should See Hints Of Reality.

What An Artist Is For Is To Tell Us What We See But Do Not Know That We See.

I May Say That I Think Greed About Poetry Is The Only Permissible Greed - It Is, Indeed, Unavoidable.

Winter Is The Time For Comfort, For Good Food And Warmth, For The Touch Of A Friendly Hand And For A Talk Beside The Fire: It Is The Time For Home.