A Book, Like A Person, Has Its

Poetry, At All Times, Exercises Two Distinct Functions: It May Reveal, It May Unveil To Every Eye, The Ideal Aspects Of Common Thingsor It May Actually Add To The Number Of Motives Poetic And Uncommon In Themselves, By The Imaginative Creation Of Things That Are Ideal From Their Very Birth.

It Is Always Hazardous To Express What One Has To Say Indirectly And Allusively.

But When Reflexion Begins To Play Upon These Objects... Like Some Trick Of Magic Each Object Is Loosed Into A Group Of Impressions - Colour, Odour, Texture... And If We Continue To Dwell In Thought On This World... The Whole Scope Of Observation Is Dwarfed Into The Narrow Chamber Of The Individual Mind.

Art Comes To You Proposing Frankly To Give Nothing But The Highest Quality To Your Moments As They Pass.

That The Mere Matter Of A Poem, For Instance--its Subject, Its Given Incidents Or Situation; That The Mere Matter Of A Picture--the Actual Circumstances Of An Event, The Actual Topography Of A Landscape--should Be Nothing Without The Form, The Spirit Of The Handling, That This Form, This Mode Of Handling, Should Become An End In Itself, Should Penetrate Every Part Of The Matter;mthis Is What All Art Constantly Strives After, And Achieves In Different Degrees.