Hardly One Soldier In A Hundred Was

The Art Of Poetry Consists In Taking The Poem Through Draft After Draft, Without Losing Its Inspirational Magic: He Removes Everything Irrelevant Or Distracting, And Tightens Up What Is Left. Lazy Poets Never Carry Their Early Drafts Far Enough: Some Even Believe That Virtue Lies In The Original Doodle Scrawled On The Back Of An Envelope.

Well, We've Been Lucky Devils Both And There Is No Need For A Pledge Or Oath To Bind Our Lovely Friendship Fast, By Firmer Stuff Close Bound Enough.

The Decline Of True Taste For Food Is The Beginning Of A Decline In A National Culture As A Whole. When People Have Lost Their Authentic Personal Taste, They Lose Their Personality And Become The Instruments Of Other People's Wills.

If I Thought That Any Poem Of Mine Could Have Been Written By Anyone Else, Either A Contemporary Or A Forerunner, I Should Suppress It With A Blush; And I Should Do The Same If I Ever Found I Were Imitating Myself. Every Poem Should Be New, Unexpected, Inimitable, And Incapable Of Being Parodied.

Where Nature With Accustomed Round Sweeps And Garnishes The Ground With Kindly Beauty, Warm Or Cold Alternate Seasons Never Old: Heathen, How Furiously You Rage, Cursing This Blood And Brimstone Age, How Furiously Against Your Will You Kill And Kill Again, And Kill: All Thought Of Peace Behind You Cast, Till Like Small Boys With Fear Aghast, Each Cries For God To Understand, 'i Could Not Help It, It Was My Hand.