Not, I’ll Not, Carrion Comfort, Despair, Not

When I Compare Myself, My Being-myself, With Anything Else Whatever, All Things Alike, All In The Same Degree, Rebuff Me With Blank Unlikeness.

I Hold With The Old-fashioned Criticism That Browning Is Not Really A Poet, That He Has All The Gifts But The One Needful And The Pearls Without The String; Rather One Should Say Raw Nuggets And Rough Diamonds.

Lovely The Woods, Waters, Meadows, Combes, Vales, All The Air Things Wear That Build This World Of Wales.

For I Think It Is The Case With Genius That It Is Not When Quiescent So Very Much Above Mediocrity As The Difference Between The Two Might Lead Us To Think, But That It Has The Power And Privilege Of Rising From That Level To A Height Utterly Far From Mediocrity: In Other Words That Its Greatness Is That It Can Be So Great.

No Wonder Of It: Sheer Plod Makes Plough Down Sillion Shine, And Blue-bleak Embers, Ah My Dear, Fall, Gall Themselves, And Gash Gold-vermilion.