Hate Is A Fear, And Fear Is

New Beginnings And New Shoots Spring Again From Hidden Roots Pull Or Stab Or Cut Or Burn, Love Must Ever Yet Return.

This Seems To Me A Philosophical Question, And Therefore Irrelevant, Question. A Poet's Destiny Is To Love.

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

To Know Only One Thing Well Is To Have A Barbaric Mind: Civilization Implies The Graceful Relation Of All Varieties Of Experience To A Central Humane System Of Thought. The Present Age Is Peculiarly Barbaric: Introduce, Say, A Hebrew Scholar To An Ichthyologist Or An Authority On Danish Place Names And The Pair Of Them Would Have No Single Topic In Common But The Weather Or The War (if There Happened To Be A War In Progress, Which Is Usual In This Barbaric Age).

The Award Of A Pure Gold Medal For Poetry Would Flatter The Recipient Unduly: No Poem Ever Attains Such Carat Purity.