The Artist Is The Antenna Of The

The Eyes Of This Dead Lady Speak To Me For Here Was Love, Was Not To Be Drowned Out. And Here Desire, Not To Be Kissed Away. The Eyes Of This Dead Lady Speak To Me.

Learn Of The Green World What Can Be Thy Place In Scaled Invention Or True Artistry

Great Literature Is Simply Language Charged With Meaning To The Utmost Possible Degree.

Use No Word That Under Stress Of Emotion You Could Not Actually Say.

Poetry Is About As Much A 'criticism Of Life' As Red-hot Iron Is A Criticism Of Fire.