It is a miracle of harmony, of the adaptation of the free inner life to the outward necessity of things.

It is a miracle of harmony, of the adaptation of the free inner life to the outward necessity of things.

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

And if no Lethe flows beneath your casement, And when ten years have not brought full effacement, Philosophy was wrong, and you may meet.

And yet what is Modernism? It is undefined.

Or he can work it out as a metrical and formal exercise, but he will be disappointed in its content. The New Year's prospect fairly chills his daunting breast.

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