Who do young poets and writers think they’re writing for? Is it all going to be slam poetry from now on? God help us.
“Yea, she hath passed hereby, and blessed the sheaves,
And the great garths, and stacks, and quiet farms,
And all the tawny, and the crimson leaves.
Yea, she hath passed with poppies in her arms,
Under the star of dusk, through stealing mist,
And blessed the earth, and gone, while no man wist.”
Frederic Manning | “Korè”