Others make verses of grace.
Mine are all muscle and sinew.
Others can picture your face.
But I all the tumult within you.

Others can give you delight,
And delight I confess is worth giving.
But my songs must tickle and bite
And burn with the ardor of living

You really can't imagine how I love the ancient Greeks.
I love the dancing language where their mobile spirit speaks.
I love the songs of Homer, flowing on like streams of light,
With a touch of human kindness in the splendid shock of fight.

I love the Alexandrians whose inimitable grace
Filled the world with piping shepherds, though a far from piping place.
But my chief delight, like Arnold's, is the glory of the nine, Passion, laughter, deathless beauty, on the Attic stage divine.