Poetry, That Is To Say The Poetic,

Victory Won't Come To Me Unless I Go To It; A Grape Tendril Ties A Knot In Knots Till Knotted Thirty Times

We Are What We Were At Birth, And Each Trait Has Remained In Conformity With Earth's And With Heaven's Logic: Be The Devil's Tool, Resort To Black Magic, None Can Diverge From The Ends Which Heaven Foreordained.

The Prey Of Fear, He, Always Curtailed, Extinguished, Thwarted By The Dusk, Work Partly Done, Says To The Alternating Blaze, "again The Sun! Anew Each Day; And New And New And New, That Comes Into And Steadies My Soul."

Any Writer Overwhelmingly Honest About Pleasing Himself Is Almost Sure To Please Others.

What I Write Could Only Be Called Poetry Because There Is No Other Category To Put It.