The Apparition Of These Faces In The

Poetry Is A Language Pared Down To Its Essentials.

The Primary Pigment Of Poetry Is The Image.

Haie! Haie! These Were The Swift To Harry; These The Keen-scented; These Were The Souls Of Blood. Slow On The Leash, Pallid The Leash-men!

Artists Are The Antennae Of The Race.

Yet The Companions Of The Muses Will Keep Their Collective Nose In My Books And Weary With Historical Data, They Will Turn To My Dance Tune.