I Believe That Every English Poet Should

New Beginnings And New Shoots Spring Again From Hidden Roots Pull Or Stab Or Cut Or Burn, Love Must Ever Yet Return.

Lovers To-day And For All Time Preserve The Meaning Of My Rhyme: Love Is Not Kindly Nor Yet Grim But Does To You As You To Him.

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.

This Seems To Me A Philosophical Question, And Therefore Irrelevant, Question. A Poet's Destiny Is To Love.

When A Dream Is Born In You With A Sudden Clamorous Pain, When You Know The Dream Is True And Lovely, With No Flaw Nor Stain, O Then, Be Careful, Or With Sudden Clutch You'll Hurt The Delicate Thing You Prize So Much.