Hate Is A Fear, And Fear Is

Through The Window I Can See Rooks Above The Cherry-tree, Sparrows In The Violet Bed, Bramble-bush And Bumble-bee, And Old Red Bracken Smoulders Still Among Boulders On The Hill, Far Too Bright To Seem Quite Dead. But Old Death, Who Can't Forget, Waits His Time And Watches Yet, Waits And Watches By The Door.

The Difference Between You And Her (whom I To You Did Once Prefer) Is Clear Enough To Settle: She Like A Diamond Shone, But You Shine Like An Early Drop Of Dew Poised On A Red Rose Petal. The Dew-drop Carries In Its Eye Mountain And Forest, Sea And Sky, With Every Change Of Weather; Contrariwise, A Diamond Splits The Prospect Into Idle Bits That None Can Piece Together.

One Smile Relieves A Heart That Grieves.

Love Is A Universal Migraine. A Bright Stain On The Vision, Blotting Out Reason.

Philosophy Is Antipoetic. Philosophize About Mankind And You Brush Aside Individual Uniqueness, Which A Poet Cannot Do Without Self-damage. Unless, For A Start, He Has A Strong Personal Rhythm To Vary His Metrics, He Is Nothing. Poets Mistrust Philosophy. They Know That Once The Heads Are Counted, Each Owner Of A Head Loses His Personal Identify And Becomes A Number In Some Government Scheme: If Not As A Slave Or Serf, At Least As A Party To The Device Of Majority Voting, Which Smothers Personal Views.