Poetry, Far More Than Fiction, Reveals The

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

To Understand Vers Libre, One Must Abandon All Desire To Find In It The Even Rhythm Of Metrical Feet. One Must Allow The Lines To Flow As They Will When Read Aloud By An Intelligent Reader.

In My Stiff, Brocaded Gown. With My Powdered Hair And Jeweled Fan, I Too Am A Rare Pattern.

On The Neck Of The Young Man Sparkles No Gem So Gracious As Enterprise. Youth Condemns; Maturity Condones.

How Much More Beautiful Is The Moon, Slanting Down The Gauffered Branches Of A Plum-tree; The Moon Wavering Across A Bed Of Tulips; The Moon, Still, Upon Your Face. You Shine, Beloved, You And The Moon. But Which Is The Reflection?