I Made No More Protests.

Any Honest Housewife Would Sort Them Out,/ Having A Nose For Fish, An Eye For Apples.

Where Nature With Accustomed Round Sweeps And Garnishes The Ground With Kindly Beauty, Warm Or Cold Alternate Seasons Never Old: Heathen, How Furiously You Rage, Cursing This Blood And Brimstone Age, How Furiously Against Your Will You Kill And Kill Again, And Kill: All Thought Of Peace Behind You Cast, Till Like Small Boys With Fear Aghast, Each Cries For God To Understand, 'i Could Not Help It, It Was My Hand.

The Function Of Poetry Is Religious Invocation Of The Muse; Its Use Is The Experience Of Mixed Exaltation And Horror That Her Presence Excites.

Faults In English Prose Derive Not So Much From Lack Of Knowledge, Intelligence Or Art As From Lack Of Thought, Patience Or Goodwill.

One Smile Relieves A Heart That Grieves.