A Perfect Poem Is Impossible. Once It

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.

We Once Discussed Which Were The Cleanest Troops In The Trenches, Taken By Nationalities. We Agreed On A Descending-order Like This: English And German Protestants; Northern Irish, Welsh And Canadians; Irish And German Catholics; Scots; Mohammedan Indians; Algerians; Portugese; Belgians; French. We Put The Belgians And French There For Spite; They Could Not Have Been Dirtier Than The Algerians And The Portugese.

When I'm Killed, Don't Think Of Me Buried There In Cambrin Wood, Nor As In Zion Think Of Me With The Intolerable Good. And There's One Thing That I Know Well, I'm Damned If I'll Be Damned To Hell!

A Banker Warned The British Poet Robert Graves That One Could Not Grow Rich Writing Poetry. He Replied That If There Was No Money In Poetry, There Was Certainly No Poetry In Money, And So It Was All Even.

The Butterfly, A Cabbage-white, (his Honest Idiocy Of Flight) Will Never Now, It Is Too Late, Master The Art Of Flying Straight.