To Learn One Must Be Humble. But

My Words In Her Mind: Cold Polished Stones Sinking Through A Quagmire.

Heart Of My Heart, Were It More, More Would Be Laid At Your Feet.

The Sea, The Snotgreen Sea, The Scrotumtightening Sea.

There Is No Heresy Or No Philosophy Which Is So Abhorrent To The Church As A Human Being.

Poetry, Even When Apparently Most Fantastic, Is Always A Revolt Against Artifice, A Revolt, In A Sense, Against Actuality. It Speaks Of What Seems Fantastic And Unreal To Those Who Have Lost The Simple Intuitions Which Are The Test Of Reality; And, As It Is Often Found At War With Its Age, So It Makes No Account Of History, Which Is Fabled By The Daughters Of Memory.