It's The Light Of The

And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.

Most Poetry Is Very Formal, But When A Modern Poet Is Formal He Gets More Attention For It Than Old Poets Did.

Everywhere, Giant Finned Cars Nose Forward Like Fish; A Savage Servility Slides By On Grease.

If Youth Is A Defect, It Is One We Outgrow Too Soon.

I Was Overcome With An Attack Of Pathological Enthusiasm.