The Written Word Is Everything.

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.

Great Men Are Rare, Poets Are Rarer, But The Great Man Who Is A Poet, Transfiguring His Greatness, Is The Rarest Of All Events.

There Can Be No Proof That Blake's Lyric Is Composed Of The Best Words In The Best Order; Only A Conviction, Accepted By Our Knowledge And Judgment, That It Is So.

But In The Finished Art Of The Song The Use Of Words Has No Connection With The Use Of Words In Poetry.

It Should Here Be Added That Poetry Habitually Takes The Form Of Verse.