There Is One Story And One Story

When I'm Killed, Don't Think Of Me Buried There In Cambrin Wood, Nor As In Zion Think Of Me With The Intolerable Good. And There's One Thing That I Know Well, I'm Damned If I'll Be Damned To Hell!

Any Honest Housewife Would Sort Them Out,/ Having A Nose For Fish, An Eye For Apples.

There Is No Such Thing As Good Writing, Only Good Rewriting.

There's A Cool Web Of Language Winds Us In, Retreat From Too Much Joy Or Too Much Fear: We Grow Sea-green At Last And Coldly Die In Brininess And Volubility.

If I Thought That Any Poem Of Mine Could Have Been Written By Anyone Else, Either A Contemporary Or A Forerunner, I Should Suppress It With A Blush; And I Should Do The Same If I Ever Found I Were Imitating Myself. Every Poem Should Be New, Unexpected, Inimitable, And Incapable Of Being Parodied.