The Poet Is The Complete Lover Of

The Living Blind And Seeing Dead Together Lie As If In Love . . . There Was No More Hating Then, And No More Love; Gone Is The Heart Of Man.

The Ghost Of The Heart Of Manred Cain And The More Murderous Brain Of Man, Still Redder Nero That Conceived The Death Of His Mother Earth, And Tore Her Womb, To Know The Place Where He Was Conceived.

Hot Water Is My Native Element. I Was In It As A Baby, And I Have Never Seemed To Get Out Of It Ever Since.

The Reason Why Matthew Arnold, To My Feeling, Fails Entirely As A Poet (though No Doubt His Ideas Were Good - At Least, I Am Told They Were) Is That He Had No Sense Of Touch Whatsoever. Nothing Made Any Impression On His Skin. He Could Feel Neither The Shape Nor The Texture Of A Poem With His Hands.

The Poet Is A Brother Speaking To A Brother Of "a Moment Of Their Other Lives" - A Moment That Had Been Buried Beneath The Dust Of The Busy World.