New Beginnings And New Shoots Spring Again

This Seems To Me A Philosophical Question, And Therefore Irrelevant, Question. A Poet's Destiny Is To Love.

Faults In English Prose Derive Not So Much From Lack Of Knowledge, Intelligence Or Art As From Lack Of Thought, Patience Or Goodwill.

Haunted Gulp Down Your Wine, Old Friends Of Mine, Roar Through The Darkness, Stamp And Sing And Lay Ghost Hands On Everything, But Leave The Noonday's Warm Sunshine To Living Lads For Mirth And Wine. I Met You Suddenly Down The Street, Strangers Assume Your Phantom Faces, You Grin At Me From Daylight Places, Dead, Long Dead, I'm Ashamed To Greet Dead Men Down The Morning Street.

When A Dream Is Born In You With A Sudden Clamorous Pain, When You Know The Dream Is True And Lovely, With No Flaw Nor Stain, O Then, Be Careful, Or With Sudden Clutch You'll Hurt The Delicate Thing You Prize So Much.

The Butterfly, A Cabbage-white, (his Honest Idiocy Of Flight) Will Never Now, It Is Too Late, Master The Art Of Flying Straight.