Poetry, Far More Than Fiction,

To-night When The Full-bellied Moon Swallows The Stars. Grant That I Know.

Hate Is Ravening Vulture Beaks Descending On A Place Of Skulls.

Only Those Of Our Poets Who Kept Solidly To The Shakespearean Tradition Achieved Any Measure Of Success. But Keats Was The Last Great Exponent Of That Tradition, And We All Know How Thin, How Lacking In Charm, The Copies Of Keats Have Become.

Freighted With Hope, Crimsoned With Joy, We Scatter The Leaves Of Our Opening Rose.

I Should Like To Bring A Case To Trial: Prosperity Versus Beauty, Cash Registers Teetering In A Balance Against The Comfort Of The Soul.