As For Literature It Gives

Science Is Unpoetic Only To Minds Jaundiced With Sentiment And Romanticism . . . The Great Masters Of The Past Boasted All They Could Of It And Found It Magical.

The Book Shd. Be A Ball Of Light In One's Hand.

Poetry Is About As Much A 'criticism Of Life' As Red-hot Iron Is A Criticism Of Fire.

The Primary Pigment Of Poetry Is The Image.

We Live In An Age Of Science And Of Abundance. The Care And Reverence For Books As Such, Proper To An Age When No Book Was Duplicated Until Someone Took The Pains To Copy It Out By Hand, Is Obviously No Longer Suited To ’the Needs Of Society’, Or To The Conservation Of Learning. The Weeder Is Supremely Needed If The Garden Of The Muses Is To Persist As A Garden.