Literature is always personal, always one man's vision of the world, one man's experience, and it can only be popular when men are ready to welcome the visions of others.

I heard the old, old, men say 'all that's beautiful drifts away, like the waters.'

Life moves out of a red flare of dreams Into a common light of common hours, Until old age brings the red flare again.

My temptation is quiet. Here at life's end Neither loose imagination Nor the mill of the mind Consuming its rag and bone, Can make the truth known.

Now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

I am content to live it all again And yet again, if it be life to pitch Into the frog-spawn of a blind man's ditch.

Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams