Poetry Is A Sort Of Inspired Mathematics,

A Man's Hope Measures His Civilization. The Attainability Of The Hope Measures, Or May Measure, The Civilization Of His Nation And Time.

Rhythm Must Have Meaning.

The Garden En Robe De Parade. - Samain Like A Skein Of Loose Silk Blown Against A Wall She Walks By The Railing Of A Path In Kensington Gardens, And She Is Dying Piece-meal Of A Sort Of Emotional Anaemia. And Round About There Is A Rabble Of The Filthy, Sturdy, Unkillable Infants Of The Very Poor. They Shall Inherit The Earth. In Her Is The End Of Breeding. Her Boredom Is Exquisite And Excessive. She Would Like Some One To Speak To Her, And Is Almost Afraid That I Will Commit That Indiscretion.

In Verse One Can Take Any Damn Constant One Likes, One Can Alliterate, Or Assone, Or Rhyme, Or Quant, Or Smack, Only One Must Leave The Other Elements Irregular.

No Good Poetry Is Ever Written In A Manner Twenty Years Old, For To Write In Such A Manner Shows Conclusively That The Writer Thinks From Books, Convention And Cliché, Not From Real Life.