Rhythm Is One Of The Principal Translators

I Am Patient With Stupidity But Not With Those Who Are Proud Of It.

If One Is A Greyhound, Why Try To Look Like A Pekingese?

The Great Sins And Fires Break Out Of Me Like The Terrible Leaves From The Bough In The Violent Spring. I Am A Walking Fire, I Am All Leaves.

The Poet Is A Brother Speaking To A Brother Of "a Moment Of Their Other Lives" - A Moment That Had Been Buried Beneath The Dust Of The Busy World.

The Reason Why Matthew Arnold, To My Feeling, Fails Entirely As A Poet (though No Doubt His Ideas Were Good - At Least, I Am Told They Were) Is That He Had No Sense Of Touch Whatsoever. Nothing Made Any Impression On His Skin. He Could Feel Neither The Shape Nor The Texture Of A Poem With His Hands.