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No Verse Is Libre For The Man Who Wants To Do A Good Job.

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.

Good Art However 'immoral' Is Wholly A Thing Of Virtue. Good Art Can Not Be Immoral. By Good Art I Mean Art That Bears True Witness, I Mean The Art That Is Most Precise.

We Live In An Age Of Science And Of Abundance. The Care And Reverence For Books As Such, Proper To An Age When No Book Was Duplicated Until Someone Took The Pains To Copy It Out By Hand, Is Obviously No Longer Suited To ’the Needs Of Society’, Or To The Conservation Of Learning. The Weeder Is Supremely Needed If The Garden Of The Muses Is To Persist As A Garden.

It Is Difficult To Write A Paradiso When All The Superficial Indications Are That You Ought To Write An Apocalypse.