Great Men Are Rare, Poets Are Rarer,

So It Is In Poetry. All We Ask Is That The Mood Recorded Shall Impress Us As Having Been Of The Kind That Exhausts The Imaginative Capacity; If It Fails To Do This The Failure Will Announce Itself Either In Prose Or In Insignificant Verse.

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 Is The Communication Through Words Of Certain Experiences That Can Be Communicated In No Other Way.

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.

There Can Be No Proof That Blake's Lyric Is Composed Of The Best Words In The Best Order; Only A Conviction, Accepted By Our Knowledge And Judgment, That It Is So.