How Hard, How Desperately Hard, Is The

Fifteen Millions Of Soldiers With Popguns And Horses All Bent Upon Killing, Because Their "of Courses" Are Not Quite The Same.

Only Those Of Our Poets Who Kept Solidly To The Shakespearean Tradition Achieved Any Measure Of Success. But Keats Was The Last Great Exponent Of That Tradition, And We All Know How Thin, How Lacking In Charm, The Copies Of Keats Have Become.

Happiness, To Some, Is Elation; To Others It Is Mere Stagnation.

Poetry Is The Most Concentrated Form Of Literature; It Is The Most Emotionalized And Powerful Way In Which Thought Can Be Presented.

Underneath My Stiffened Gown Is The Softness Of A Woman Bathing In A Marble Basin, A Basin In The Midst Of Hedges Grown So Thick, She Cannot See Her Lover Hiding, But She Guesses He Is Near, And The Sliding Of The Water Seems The Stroking Of A Dear Hand Upon Her.