What Counts Is The Cultural Level

The Rustling Of The Silk Is Discontinued, Dust Drifts Over The Courtyard, There Is Not Sound Of Footfall, And The Leaves Scurry Into Heaps And Lie Still, And She The Rejoicer Of The Heart Is Beneath Them: A Wet Leaf That Clings To The Threshold.

Poetry Is A Very Complex Art.... It Is An Art Of Pure Sound Bound In Through An Art Of Arbitrary And Conventional Symbols.

Objectivity And Again Objectivity, And Expression: No Hindside-before-ness, No Straddled Adjectives (as "addled Mosses Dank"), No Tennysonianness Of Speech; Nothing-nothing That You Couldn't, In Some Circumstance, In The Stress Of Some Emotion, Actually Say.

Anyone Who Is Too Lazy To Master The Comparatively Small Glossary Necessary To Understand Chaucer Deserves To Be Shut Out From The Reading Of Good Books Forever.

No Verse Is Libre For The Man Who Wants To Do A Good Job.