I Dunno What My 23 Infantile Years

The Apparition Of These Faces In The Crowd; Petals On A Wet Black Bough.

The Ant's A Centaur In His Dragon World. Pull Down Thy Vanity, It Is Not Man Made Courage, Or Made Order, Or Made Grace, Pull Down Thy Vanity, I Say Pull Down. Learn Of The Green World What Can Be Thy Place In Scaled Invention Or True Artistry, Pull Down Thy Vanity, Paquin Pull Down! The Green Casque Has Outdone Your Elegance.

The Primary Pigment Of Poetry Is The Image.

The Garden En Robe De Parade. - Samain Like A Skein Of Loose Silk Blown Against A Wall She Walks By The Railing Of A Path In Kensington Gardens, And She Is Dying Piece-meal Of A Sort Of Emotional Anaemia. And Round About There Is A Rabble Of The Filthy, Sturdy, Unkillable Infants Of The Very Poor. They Shall Inherit The Earth. In Her Is The End Of Breeding. Her Boredom Is Exquisite And Excessive. She Would Like Some One To Speak To Her, And Is Almost Afraid That I Will Commit That Indiscretion.

Poetry Is A Sort Of Inspired Mathematics, Which Gives Us Equations, Not For Abstract Figures, Triangles, Squares, And The Like, But For The Human Emotions. If One Has A Mind Which Inclines To Magic Rather Than Science, One Will Prefer To Speak Of These Equations As Spells Or Incantations; It Sounds More Arcane, Mysterious, Recondite.