Allow Me To Say That I Would

I Could I Trust Starve Like A Gentleman. It's Listed As Part Of The Poetic Training, You Know.

The Rustling Of The Silk Is Discontinued, Dust Drifts Over The Courtyard, There Is Not Sound Of Footfall, And The Leaves Scurry Into Heaps And Lie Still, And She The Rejoicer Of The Heart Is Beneath Them: A Wet Leaf That Clings To The Threshold.

Objectivity And Again Objectivity, And Expression: No Hindside-before-ness, No Straddled Adjectives (as "addled Mosses Dank"), No Tennysonianness Of Speech; Nothing-nothing That You Couldn't, In Some Circumstance, In The Stress Of Some Emotion, Actually Say.

Poetry Is A Language Pared Down To Its Essentials.

Man Is An Over-complicated Organism. If He Is Doomed To Extinction He Will Die Out For Want Of Simplicity.