And Then I Asked Him With My

Too Excited To Be Genuinely Happy

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.

A Nation Is The Same People Living In The Same Place.

To Live, To Err, To Fall, To Triumph, To Recreate Life Out Of Life.

The Swift December Dusk Had Come Tumbling Clownishly After Its Dull Day And, As He Stared Through The Dull Square Of The Window Of The Schoolroom, He Felt His Belly Crave For Its Food. He Hoped There Would Be Stew For Dinner, Turnips And Carrots And Bruised Potatoes And Fat Mutton Pieces To Be Ladled Out In Thick Peppered Flourfattened Sauce. Stuff It Into You, His Belly Counselled Him.