The Aim Of Flattery Is To Soothe

I May Say That I Think Greed About Poetry Is The Only Permissible Greed - It Is, Indeed, Unavoidable.

By The Time I Was Eleven Years Old, I Had Been Taught That Nature, Far From Abhorring A Vacuum, Positively Adores It.

Tall Windows Show Infinity; And, Hard Reality, The Candles Weep And Pry And Dance Like Lives Mocked At By Chance. The Rooms Are Vast As Sleep Within; When Once I Ventured In, Chill Silence, Like A Surging Sea, Slowly Enveloped Me.

Vulgarity Is, In Reality, Nothing But A Modern, Chic, Pert Descendant Of The Goddess Dullness.

Isn't It Curious How One Has Only To Open A Book Of Verse To Realise Immediately That It Was Written By A Very Fine Poet, Or Else That It Was Written By Someone Who Is Not A Poet At All. In The Case Of The Former, The Lines, The Images, Though They Are Inherent In Each Other, Leap Up And Give One This Shock Of Delight. In The Case Of The Latter, They Lie Flat On The Page, Never Having Lived.