The Terrible Beast, That No

But It's Silly To Suggest The Writing Of Poetry Is Something Ethereal, A Sort Of Soul-crashing, Devastating Emotional Experience That Wrings You. I Have No Fancy Ideas About Poetry. ... It Doesn't Come To You On The Wings Of A Dove. It's Something You Have To Work Hard At.

O Remember In Your Narrowing Dark Hours That More Things Move Than Blood In The Heart.

But Is There Any Reason To Believe That A Woman's Spiritual Fibre Is Less Sturdy Than A Man's? Is It Not Possible For A Woman To Come To Terms With Herself If Not With The World; To Withdraw More And More, As Time Goes On, Her Own Personality From Her Productions; To Stop Childish Fears Of Death And Eschew Charming Rebellions Against Facts?

O God, In The Dream The Terrible Horse Began To Paw At The Air, And Make For Me With His Blows.

It Is Almost Impossible For The Poetess, Once Laurelled, To Take Off The Crown For Good Or To Reject Values And Taste Of Those Who Tender It.