I Did Not Look For Her, Because

On The First Of May, With My Comrades Of The Catechism Class, I Laid Lilac, Chamomile And Rose Before The Altar Of The Virgin, And Returned Full Of Pride To Show My Blessed Posy. My Mother Laughed Her Irreverent Laugh And, Looking At My Bunch Of Flowers, Which Was Bringing The May-bug Into The Sitting-room Right Under The Lamp, She Said: Do You Suppose It Wasn't Already Blessed Before?

At The Top Of The Iron Staircase Leading To The Stage, The Good, Dry, Dusty Warmth Wraps Me Round Like A Comfortable Dirty Cloak.

To Write Is To Pour One’s Innermost Self Passionately Upon The Tempting Paper, At Such Frantic Speed That Sometimes One’s Hand Struggles And Rebels, Overdriven By The Impatient God Which Guides It - And To Find, Next Day, In Place Of The Golden Bough That Bloomed Miraculously In That Dazzling Hour, A Withered Bramble And A Stunted Flower.

No One Asked You To Be Happy. Get To Work.

To A Poet, Silence Is An Acceptable Response, Even A Flattering One.