I Never Deny Poems When They Come;

I Do Not Suppose That Anyone Not A Poet Can Realize The Agony Of Creating A Poem. Every Nerve, Even Every Muscle, Seems Strained To The Breaking Point. The Poem Will Not Be Denied; To Refuse To Write It Would Be A Greater Torture. It Tears Its Way Out Of The Brain, Splintering And Breaking Its Passage, And Leaves That Organ In The State Of A Jelly-fish When The Task Is Done.

Underneath My Stiffened Gown Is The Softness Of A Woman Bathing In A Marble Basin

Without Poetry The Soul And Heart Of Man Starves And Dies.

I Should Like To Bring A Case To Trial: Prosperity Versus Beauty, Cash Registers Teetering In A Balance Against The Comfort Of The Soul.

Poetry, Far More Than Fiction, Reveals The Soul Of Humanity.