When The Poet Makes His Perfect Selection

In The Corridors Under Tehre Is Nothing But Sleep. And Stiller Than Ever On Orchard Boughs They Keep Tryst With The Moon, And Deep Is The Silence, Deep On Moon-washed Apples Of Wonder.

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.

When You Defile The Pleasant Streams, And The Wild Bird's Abiding Place, You Massacre A Million Dreams, And Cast Your Spittle In God's Face

We Recognise In The Finished Art, Which Is The Result Of These Conditions, The Best Words In The Best Order - Poetry; And To Put This Essential Poetry Into Different Classes Is Impossible.

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.