Hold To The Now, The Here, Through

We Are Bound Together By The Sympathy Of Our Antipathies.

Time Is, Time Was, But Time Shall Be No More.

It Is As Painful Perhaps To Be Awakened From A Vision As To Be Born.

Whatever Else Is Unsure In This Stinking Dunghill Of A World A Mother's Love Is Not.

Poetry, Even When Apparently Most Fantastic, Is Always A Revolt Against Artifice, A Revolt, In A Sense, Against Actuality.