In numbers warmly pure and sweetly strong.
Always mistrust a subordinate who never finds fault with his superior.
By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung.
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, By all their country's wishes blest!
Beloved, till life can charm no more; And mourned, till Pity's self be dead.
When a writer becomes a reader of his or her own work, a lot can go wrong. It's like do-it-yourself dentistry.
Words like feminism or democracy scare me. They are words with barnacles on them, and you can't see what's underneath.
Prior to Wordsworth, humor was an essential part of poetry. I mean, they don't call them Shakespeare comedies for nothing.
I think humor is a very serious thing. I use it as a way of weakening the reader's defenses so that I can more easily take him to something more.
Ode Written In The Beginning Of The Year 1746
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there!