Contrast Is The Dramatist's Method.

And At That Moment A Wind Came Out Of The Northwest, And Entered The Woods And Bared The Golden Branches, And Danced Over The Downs, And Led A Company Of Scarlet And Golden Leaves, That Had Dreaded This Day But Danced Now It Had Come; And Away With A Riot Of Dancing And Glory Of Colour, High In The Light Of The Sun That Had Set From The Sight Of The Fields, Went Wind And Leaves Together.

And She Would Not Hold Back His Limbs When His Heart Was Gone To The Woods, For It Is Ever The Way Of Witches With Any Two Things To Care For The More Mysterious Of The Two.

Of Pure Poetry There Are Two Kinds, That Which Mirrors The Beauty Of The World In Which Our Bodies Are, And That Which Builds The More Mysterious Kingdoms Where Geography Ends And Fairyland Begins, With Gods And Heroes At War, And The Sirens Singing Still, And Alph Going Down To The Darkness From Xanadu.

And Little He Knew Of The Things That Ink May Do, How It Can Mark A Dead Man's Thought For The Wonder Of Later Years, And Tell Of Happening That Are Gone Clean Away, And Be A Voice For Us Out Of The Dark Of Time, And Save Many A Fragile Thing From The Pounding Of Heavy Ages; Or Carry To Us, Over The Rolling Centuries, Even A Song From Lips Long Dead On Forgotten Hills.

Bricks Without Straw Are More Easily Made Than Imagination Without Memories.