There Can Be No Proof That Blake's

To Know Anything Of A Poet But His Poetry Is, So Far As The Poetry Is Concerned, To Know Something That May Be Entertaining, Even Delightful, But Is Certainly Inessential.

Grant Us The Wil1 To Fashion As We Feel, Grant Us The Strength To Labor As We Know, Grant Us The Purpose, Ribbed And Edged With Steel, To Strike The Blow.

It Is Commonly Asserted And Accepted That Paradise Lost Is Among The Two Or Three Greatest English Poems; It May Justly Be Taken As The Type Of Supreme Poetic Achievement In Our Literature.

So It Is In Poetry. All We Ask Is That The Mood Recorded Shall Impress Us As Having Been Of The Kind That Exhausts The Imaginative Capacity; If It Fails To Do This The Failure Will Announce Itself Either In Prose Or In Insignificant Verse.

The Musician - If He Be A Good One - Finds His Own Perception Prompted By The Poet's Perception, And He Translates The Expression Of That Perception From The Terms Of Poetry Into The Terms Of Music.