One Gets To The Heart Of The

New Beginnings And New Shoots Spring Again From Hidden Roots Pull Or Stab Or Cut Or Burn, Love Must Ever Yet Return.

The Butterfly, A Cabbage-white, (his Honest Idiocy Of Flight) Will Never Now, It Is Too Late, Master The Art Of Flying Straight.

For I Now Realize That What Overcame Me That Evening Was A Sudden Awareness Of The Power Of Intuition, The Supra-logic That Cuts Out All Routine Processes Of Thought And Leaps Straight From Problem To Answer.

If I Thought That Any Poem Of Mine Could Have Been Written By Anyone Else, Either A Contemporary Or A Forerunner, I Should Suppress It With A Blush; And I Should Do The Same If I Ever Found I Were Imitating Myself. Every Poem Should Be New, Unexpected, Inimitable, And Incapable Of Being Parodied.

Nine-tenths Of English Poetic Literature Is The Result Either Of Vulgar Careerism Or Of A Poet Trying To Keep His Hand In. Most Poets Are Dead By Their Late Twenties.