When they become so derivative as to become unintelligible,
the same thing may be said for all of us, that we do not admire what we cannot understand.

America where there
is the little old ramshackle victoria in the south,
where cigars are smoked on the street in the north;
where there are no proof-readers, no silkworms, no digressions;

the wild man's land; grassless, linksless, languageless country in
which letters are written
not in Spanish, not in Greek, not in Latin, not in shorthand,
but in plain American which cats and dogs can read!

War is pillage versus resistance and if illusions of magnitude could be transmuted into ideals of magnanimity, peace might be realized.

Hate-hardened heart, O heart of iron,
iron is iron till it is rust.
There never was a war that was
not inward; I must
fight till I have conquered in myself what
causes war, but I would not believe it.
I inwardly did nothing.
O Iscariot-like crime!
Beauty is everlasting
and dust is for a time.

So he who strongly feels, behaves.

I am governed by the pull of the sentence as the pull of fabric is governed by gravity.

A willingness to satisfy contradictory objections to one's manner of writing might turn one's work into the donkey that finally found itself being carried by its masters, since some readers suggest that quotation marks are disruptive of pleasant progress; others, that notes to what should be complete are a pedantry or evidence of an insufficiently realized task. But since in anything I have written, there have been lines in which the chief interest is borrowed, and I have not yet been able to outgrow this hybrid method of composition, acknowledgements seem only honest. Perhaps those who are annoyed by provisos, detainments, and postscripts could be persuaded to take probity on faith and disregard the notes.

There never was a war that was not inward.

I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond
all this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one
discovers in
it after all, a place for the genuine.

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Poetry is the art of creating imaginary gardens with real toads.

The problems is mastered — insupportably tiring when it was impending. Deliverance accounts for what sounds like axiom. <p> The Gordian knot need not be cut.

He's not out
seeing a sight but the rock
crystal thing to see — the startling El Greco
brimming with inner light — that
covets nothing that it has let go. This then you may know
as the hero.

Durer would have seen a reason for living
in a town like this

One may be pardoned, yes I know one may, for love for love, undying (Ephesians 6:24)

"...when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not poetry, nor till the poets among us can be "literalists of the imagination" — above insolence and triviality and can present for inspection, "imaginary gardens with real toads in them," shall we have it."