When critics are waiting to pounce upon poetic style on exactly the same grounds as if it were prose, the poets tremble.

And how can poetry stand up against its new conditions? Its position is perfectly precarious.

Two evils, monstrous either one apart, Possessed me, and were long and loath at going: A cry of Absence, Absence, in the heart, And in the wood the furious winter blowing.

And yet what is Modernism? It is undefined.

He can develop sense and style, in the manner of distinguished modern prose, in which event he may be sure that the result will not fall into any objective form.

Too much is demanded by the critic, attempted by the poet.

For no art and no religion is possible until we make allowances, until we manage to keep quiet the enfant terrible of logic that plays havoc with the other faculties.