Truth-loving Persians Do Not Dwell Upon The

The Sap Of Spring In The Young Wood A-stir Will Celebrate With Green The Mother, And Every Song-bird Shout Awhile For Her; But We Are Gifted, Even In November Rawest Of Seasons, With So Huge A Sense Of Her Nakedly Worn Magnificence We Forget Cruelty And Past Betrayal, Heedless Of Where The Next Bright Bolt May Fall.

If I Were A Girl, I'd Despair. The Supply Of Good Women Far Exceeds That Of The Men Who Deserve Them.

The Poet's First Rule Must Be Never To Bore His Readers; And His Best Way Of Keeping This Rule Is Never To Bore Himself-which, Of Course, Means To Write Only When He Has Something Urgent To Say.

Poetry Began In The Matriarchal Age, And Derives Its Magic From The Moon, Not From The Sun. No Poet Can Hope To Understand The Nature Of Poetry Unless He Has Had A Vision Of The Naked King Crucified To The Lopped Oak, And Watched The Dancers, Red-eyed From The Acrid Smoke Of The Sacrificial Fires, Stamping Out The Measure Of The Dance, Their Bodies Bent Uncouthly Forward, With A Monotonous Chant Of "kill! Kill! Kill!" And "blood! Blood! Blood!

To Recommend A Monarchy On Account Of The Prosperity It Gives The Provinces Seems To Me Like Recommending That A Man Should Have Liberty To Treat His Children As Slaves, If At The Same Time He Treats His Slaves With Reasonable Consideration.