A merely great intellect can produce prose, but not poetry, not one line.

Verse is the natural speech of men, as singing is of birds'The Week's Survey, 18 June 1904

November’s days are thirty: November’s earth is dirty, Those thirty days, from first to last; And the prettiest things on ground are the paths.... Few care for the mixture of earth and water, Twig, leaf, flint, thorn, Straw, feather, all that men scorn, Pounded up and sodden by flood, Condemned as mud.

Making war or rebellion is messy, like eating soup off a knife.

As well as any bloom upon a flower I like the dust on the nettles, never lost Except to prove the sweetness of a shower.

A merely great intellect can produce prose, but not poetry, not one line.

The flowers left thick at nightfall in the wood This Eastertide call into mind the men, Now far from home, who, with their sweethearts, should Have gathered them and will do never again.