Hate Is A Fear, And Fear Is

I Was Last In Rome In Ad 540 When It Was Full Of Goths And Their Heavy Horses. It Has Changed A Great Deal Since Then.

Poetry Began In The Matriarchal Age, And Derives Its Magic From The Moon, Not From The Sun. No Poet Can Hope To Understand The Nature Of Poetry Unless He Has Had A Vision Of The Naked King Crucified To The Lopped Oak, And Watched The Dancers, Red-eyed From The Acrid Smoke Of The Sacrificial Fires, Stamping Out The Measure Of The Dance, Their Bodies Bent Uncouthly Forward, With A Monotonous Chant Of "kill! Kill! Kill!" And "blood! Blood! Blood!

Patriotism, In The Trenches, Was Too Remote A Sentiment, And At Once Rejected As Fit Only For Civilians, Or Prisoners. A New Arrival Who Talked Patriotism Would Soon Be Told To Cut It Out.

A Perfect Poem Is Impossible. Once It Had Been Written, The World Would End. Immature Poets Imitate; Mature Poets Steal.

There's A Cool Web Of Language Winds Us In, Retreat From Too Much Joy Or Too Much Fear: We Grow Sea-green At Last And Coldly Die In Brininess And Volubility.