The Written Word Is Everything.

In The Corridors Under Tehre Is Nothing But Sleep. And Stiller Than Ever On Orchard Boughs They Keep Tryst With The Moon, And Deep Is The Silence, Deep On Moon-washed Apples Of Wonder.

The Poet's Perfect Expression Is The Token Of A Perfect Experience; What He Says In The Best Possible Way He Has Felt In The Best Possible Way, That Is, Completely.

But In The Finished Art Of The Song The Use Of Words Has No Connection With The Use Of Words In Poetry.

To Know Anything Of A Poet But His Poetry Is, So Far As The Poetry Is Concerned, To Know Something That May Be Entertaining, Even Delightful, But Is Certainly Inessential.

Grant Us The Wil1 To Fashion As We Feel, Grant Us The Strength To Labor As We Know, Grant Us The Purpose, Ribbed And Edged With Steel, To Strike The Blow.