The Mortal Sickness Of A Mind Too

Housman Is One Of My Heroes And Always Has Been. He Was A Detestable And Miserable Man. Arrogant, Unspeakably Lonely, Cruel, And So On, But And Absolutely Marvellous Minor Poet, I Think, And A Great Scholar.

You Smile Upon Your Friend To-day, To-day His Ills Are Over; You Hearken To The Lover's Say, And Happy Is The Lover. 'tis Late To Hearken, Late To Smile, But Better Late Than Never: I Shall Have Lived A Little While Before I Die For Ever.

I Think That To Transfuse Emotion - Not To Transmit Thought But To Set Up In The Reader's Sense A Vibration Corresponding To What Was Felt By The Writer - Is The Peculiar Function Of Poetry.

The House Of Delusions Is Cheap To Build But Drafty To Live In.

The Rainy Pleiads Wester Orion Plunges Prone, And Midnight Strikes And Hastens, And I Lie Down Alone.