On The Neck Of The Young Man

I Shall Go Up And Down In My Gown. Gorgeously Arrayed, Boned And Stayed.

Art Is Like Politics. Any Theory Carried Too Far Ends In Sterility, And Freshness Is Only Gained By Following Some Other Line.

I Do Not Suppose That Anyone Not A Poet Can Realize The Agony Of Creating A Poem. Every Nerve, Even Every Muscle, Seems Strained To The Breaking Point. The Poem Will Not Be Denied; To Refuse To Write It Would Be A Greater Torture. It Tears Its Way Out Of The Brain, Splintering And Breaking Its Passage, And Leaves That Organ In The State Of A Jelly-fish When The Task Is Done.

Moon! Moon! I Am Prone Before You. Pity Me,and Drench Me In Loneliness.

Fifteen Millions Of Soldiers With Popguns And Horses All Bent Upon Killing, Because Their "of Courses" Are Not Quite The Same.