I Desired My Dust To Be Mingled

Here Is Our Poetry, For We Have Pulled Down The Stars To Our Will.

Poetry Is About As Much A 'criticism Of Life' As Red-hot Iron Is A Criticism Of Fire.

I Ask A Wreathwhich Will Not Crush My Head. And There Is No Hurry About It; I Shall Have, Doubtless, A Boom After My Funeral, Seeing That Long Standing Increases All Things Regardless Of Quality.

But The One Thing You Should. Not Do Is To Suppose That When Something Is Wrong With The Arts, It Is Wrong With The Arts Only.

The Primary Pigment Of Poetry Is The Image.