If A Man Isn't Willing

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.

There Are Few Things More Difficult Than To Appraise The Work Of A Man Suddenly Dead In His Youth; To Disentangle Promise From Achievement; To Save Him From That Sentimentalizing Which Confuses The Tragedy Of The Interruption With The Merit Of The Work Actually Performed.

It Is Difficult To Write A Paradiso When All The Superficial Indications Are That You Ought To Write An Apocalypse.

Use No Superfluous Word, No Adjective, Which Does Not Reveal Something.

And New York Is The Most Beautiful City In The World? It Is Not Far From It. No Urban Night Is Like The Night There... Squares After Squares Of Flame, Set Up And Cut Into The Aether. Here Is Our Poetry, For We Have Pulled Down The Stars To Our Will.