Old Men Ought To Be Explorers.

The Eastern Light Our Spires Touch At Morning, The Light That Slants Upon Our Western Doors At Evening, The Twilight Over Stagnant Pools At Batflight, Moon Light And Star Light, Owl And Moth Light, Glow-worm Glowlight On A Grassblade. O Light Invisible, We Worship Thee!

Art Never Improves, But... The Material Of Art Is Never Quite The Same.

Each Venture Is A New Beginning, A Raid On The Inarticulate With Shabby Equipment Always Deteriorating In The General Mess Of Imprecision Of Feeling.

There Is, It Seems To Us, At Best, Only A Limited Value In The Knowledge Derived From Experience.

It Is A Test (a Positive Test, I Do Not Assert That It Is Always Valid Negatively), That Genuine Poetry Can Communicate Before It Is Understood.