Many Of Today's Verses Are Prose And

Evidently The Arts, All The Visual Arts, Are Becoming More Democratic In The Worst Sense Of The Word.

The New Man Is Born Too Old To Tolerate The New World. The Present Conditions Of Life Have Not Yet Erased The Traces Of The Past. We Run Too Fast, But We Still Do Not Move Enough. He Looks But He Does Not Contemplate, He Sees But He Does Not Think.

This Proves That Great Lyric Poetry Can Die, Be Reborn, Die Again, But Will Always Remain One Of The Most Outstanding Creations Of The Human Soul.

Against The Dark Background Of This Contemporary Civilization Of Well-being, Even The Arts Tend To Mingle, To Lose Their Identity.

The Poet Does Not Know - Often He Will Never Know - Whom He Really Writes For.