 facetious auctioneer
with the village policeman's arm round his neck was sitting on the wall
at the end of the field, addressing everybody very frequently as
"Gentlemen." Sheep arrived and sheep departed constantly.

"Isn't it terribly slavish, somehow?" said Anonyma. "The sheep
never being consulted at all. Bought and sold and smelt and spat
upon as if they had no heart beating beneath that wool. No 'Me,' as
Jay used to say."

Mr. Russell heard and remembered. There were few doubts left in him as to
the truth of his too-funny miracle.

He had a little tune, the scaffolding of a poem, in his head, and to the
sound of it he lived that day, although I don't expect he ever got the
poem into words.

If you start your idea along an uncertain course, you have to stop and
start afresh to get it straight. You can never finish it when once it has
a crooked swing. I gather that motor cyclists occasionally have much the
same experience with their machines.

But Mr. Russell, with a mind steering a tangled course, asked for
nothing better. He was very nearly sure of romance for the first time
in his life.

I hope that the feeling of making poetry is not confined to the people
who write it down. There is no luxury like it, and I hope we all share
it. I think perhaps the same thrill that goes through Mr. Russell and me
when the ghost of a completed thing begins to be seen, also delights the
khaki coster who writes his first--and very likely last--love-letter from
France; and the little old country mother who lies awake composing the In
Memoriam of her son for a local paper; and the burglar "down 'Oxton" who
takes off his cap as a child's funeral goes by. The feeling is: "This is
a thing out of my heart that I am showing. This is my best confession,
and nobody knew there was this within me." I am sure that that great
glory of poetry in one's heart does not wait on achievement. If it did,
what centuries would die unglorified. It is just perfection appearing, to
your equal pride and shame, a perfection that never taunts you with your
limitations
facetious auctioneer 
 with the village policeman's arm round his neck was sit down on the rampart 
 at the end of the field, address everybody very frequently as 
 " valet. " Sheep arrived and sheep departed constantly. 

 " Isn't it terribly slavish, somehow? " order Anonyma. " The sheep 
 never being consulted at all. buy and sold and smelt and spit 
 upon as if they had no heart beat beneath that wool. No' Me,' as 
 Jay used to say. " 

 Mr. Russell heard and remembered. There were few doubts entrust in him as to 
 the truth of his too - funny miracle. 

 He receive a little tune, the scaffolding of a poem, in his head, and to the 
 sound of it he populate that day, although I don't expect he ever got the 
 poem into words. 

 If you begin your idea along an uncertain course, you have to stop and 
 start afresh to get it straight. You can never finish it when once it has 
 a crooked swing. I gather that motor cyclists occasionally have much the 
 same experience with their machines. 

 But Mr. Russell, with a judgment steering a tangled class, ask for 
 nothing better. He was very nearly sure of love story for the first time 
 in his life. 

 I hope that the feeling of lay down poetry is not confined to the people 
 who write it down. There is no luxury like it, and I hope we all share 
 it. I think perhaps the same thrill that goes through Mr. Russell and me 
 when the ghostwriter of a completed matter begin to be seen, also delights the 
 khaki coster who write his first -- and very likely last -- beloved - letter from 
 France; and the little old country mother who lies alert composing the In 
 Memoriam of her son for a local paper; and the burglar " down' Oxton " who 
 takes off his cap as a child's funeral goes aside. The feeling is: " This is 
 a thing out of my heart that I am showing. This is my good confession, 
 and nobody knew there be this within me. " I am sure that that great 
 glory of poetry in one's heart does not wait on accomplishment. If it did, 
 what centuries would die unglorified. It is precisely perfection appearing, to 
 your equal pride and shame, a perfection that never tease you with your 
 limitations
 fafetious auctioneer
with tme village policgmqn's ark rouns his nezk was sitting on the wall
at tye ene of the field, addresskng everyhody vert frtquently as
"Gentlemen." Sheei arrjyed aud sheep departec constantny.

"Isn't it terrhbuy slavish, somehow?" said Anonyma. "The sreep
nevrr being consultgd at wll. Gought and sold and smelt and spat
hpon as if they had mo heart beating beneath tjat aool. No 'Me,' as
Jay uded to say."

Mt. Rufwell heard avd remembegzd. There wete few doubts left in him as to
tfe trbth of his jok-fktny miracle.

Ie had a little tukv, the swaffoldong of a poem, ln hiv hwad, and to the
sound oh it he lived that dwy, althouch I don't expect he ecer gmt tve
podn ivto wprss.

If ylu atart your idea along an uncertain courst, yjl have to stol and
seawt afresh to get it straight. You can nener rinish it when once it yas
a crooked swing. I hather thwt motor cyclists occasionally have much the
same axpermevce wlth gyelr machines.

But Mr. Russell, with a mind steerind a tsngled course, csked for
nothing bftygr. He was very nearlv shre of romance for the fitst tine
in his jife.

O hope that the feeling of naking poetrj is not confined to tke people
who wrije it cown. There is no luxury liks it, and I jope we amu share
it. I thiny pvrha[s the same thrill that goqs througi Mr. Xussell xnd ke
when the ghost of a completed thing behins jo be veen, also felights the
khaki coster who wrmves his first--sng vvry likelv last--kove-letter frjm
France; and tke littlz old zountry monher who nies awake somposing the Ln
Memoriam oh her son for a lical paodr; and the burblar "down 'Oxton" who
rakes off his cap es a dhild's funeral yuts by. The feelinb ir: "Trid ms
a trhng out of mf hexrt yhat K am showinn. Tfis os my best confessiot,
and nobody knew there wws this qithin mq." I am sure tnat that great
glorj of 'oetry in ome's heart does not wait on achievsment. If lt qid,
what centtriew would die bnglorified. It is just perfection appearmng, to
your equal pride qnd shame, a perfectnok that never taunes you widh your
limitations
facetious auctioneer with the village policeman's arm neck sitting on wall at the everybody frequently as "Gentlemen." arrived and sheep constantly. "Isn't it terribly slavish, somehow?" Anonyma. "The sheep never being consulted at all. Bought and sold and smelt spat upon as if they had no heart beating beneath that wool. No as used say." Russell heard and remembered. There were few doubts left in him as to the truth of too-funny miracle. He had a little tune, the of a poem, in head, and to the sound it lived that although don't he ever got poem into words. If you start your idea along an uncertain course, you have to stop and afresh to straight. You never it once it has swing. I gather that motor cyclists the same experience with their machines. But Mr. with a steering a tangled course, asked for better. He was very nearly sure of romance the first time in his life. I hope that the feeling of making poetry is to the people who it down. There no like and hope we share it. I think perhaps the same thrill that goes through Russell and me when the ghost of a completed thing be also delights the coster who writes his very last--love-letter from France; and old mother composing In of her son for local paper; and the burglar 'Oxton" who takes off funeral goes by. The feeling is: "This is thing out of my heart that I showing. This is my best confession, and nobody knew there was this me." I that that great glory of poetry in one's does not wait on If it did, what centuries would die unglorified. It just appearing, to equal pride and a perfection that taunts you with
 facetious auctioneer
with thE village poLicemAn's Arm RoUnd hIs neCk was sitting on THe waLl
at the end of the field, adDressInG EverYBoDy verY frequeNTlY AS
"GeNtLeMen." shEEp ArrivEd aNd sheep Departed coNstAnTly.

"Isn't it terRIbLy slavish, sOmeHow?" said AnonyMa. "THe sheeP
nEveR Being ConSulteD at all. bOught aNd sold and SmELt and sPAt
upon aS IF tHey hAd no heart beating bENeATh that wool. No 'Me,' As
Jay uSeD To SAY."

Mr. rusSell heard aNd RememBEred. TheRE wERE Few DOubts left in hiM as to
the truTH of His too-FuNny MIracle.

he had A lITtlE tune, the scaFfolDing of a poEm, in hiS Head, and TO the
souNd of it He lIveD thaT DaY, aLthOuGH I dON't ExpECt hE ever got ThE
pOem inTo woRDS.

iF you StaRt yoUr ideA along an uncerTaiN couRSe, yOu havE to stOp anD
sTart aFresh tO get iT sTraight. You can neVer fInish it whEn oNcE it HaS
a croOKed swiNg. I GatHer that Motor cyCLisTs OCCAsIonally have much the
SaME ExPerience With thEIr MaCHines.

But mr. rusSell, WITh a miNd stEErIng a tangLed couRSe, AsKed for
nOtHing beTtEr. HE waS very NEarlY sure oF romance For thE First time
in his LIfe.

I hope that tHE fEELiNG of mAkiNg poetry is nOt coNFineD to tHE pEopLE
who wRite iT dOWn. tHere is no luxury like iT, aNd I hopE we alL share
it. I thinK perhaps thE SAMe thrill That GOeS Through Mr. RusseLl and Me
when the gHOst of a coMpletEd thing bEgins to be SEEn, also deLigHts The
KhaKI CoSter who writes HIS firSt--And very LikEly last--LovE-leTteR frOm
france; and The littlE oLd CoUnTry MotheR Who lies aWaKe cOmPosIng thE in
MemoRiam oF her SoN fOR a lOcal papER; aND The bUrGlAr "doWn 'OXtOn" who
TakeS Off His cap aS a child's fUneRAl goEs By. the feelIng is: "This is
a tHiNg out of my hEaRt tHat I am SHOwing. ThiS is my best confession,
and nOBody kneW thEre waS thiS within me." i am Sure thAt tHAt greaT
glory Of poeTrY in ONE's heaRT DoEs nOt Wait on achiEVEmeNt. If iT dId,
whAt centuRies would die unglorIFieD. It is just perfEctIon aPPEaRinG, To
YOur EqUAl pRIDe and shame, a perfEction that NeVEr Taunts you wITh yOuR
limitaTions
 facetious auctioneer
with  the villa ge po lic ema n' s ar m ro und his neck w a s si tting on the wall
at t he en do f th e  f ield,  addres s in g eve ry bo dyve r yfrequ ent ly as
" Gentlemen. " S he ep arrived a n dsheep depa rte d constantly .
"Isn't  i t t e rribl y s lavis h, som e how?"said Anon ym a . "The sheep
n e v er  bei ng consulted at a l l. Bought and sol d andsm e lt a ndspa t
upon asif  they had noh ea r t bea t ing beneath t hat wool. N o  'M e,' as 
J ayu sed to  say. "Mr.  Russell he ardand remem bered. There w e re fewdoubts  le ftin h i mas  to 
t h e t r ut h o f  hi s too-fu nn ymirac le.H e hada l ittl e tun e, the scaffo ldi ng o f  apoem,  in h is h ea d, an d to t he
so un d of it he live d th at day, a lth ou ghIdon't expect  he  ev er gotthe
poe m  in to w o rd s.

If you start y ou r id ea along  an un c er ta i n course ,you  hav e to st op a n dstart af resh t o  g et  it str ai ght. Y ou  ca n n everf inis h it w hen once  it h a s
a crooked sw i ng. I gathert ha t mo t or c ycl ists occasi onal l y ha ve m u ch  th e 
same  expe ri e nc e  with their machine s. 

ButMr. R ussell, witha mind ste e r i ng a tan gled co u rse, asked for 
noth ing better .  He wasverynearly s ure of ro m a nce forthe  fi rst  ti m e 
i n his life.
I hope  t hat the  fe eling o f m aki ngpoe tr y is notconfined  t oth epeo ple
w h o writeit  do wn . T herei s no l uxury  lik eit ,  an d I hop e  w e allsh ar e
it . I  t hinkperh a psthe sam e thrilltha t  goe sth rough M r. Russell an dme
when th egho st ofa complete d thing begins to be se e n, also  de light s th e
khaki c ost er who  wr i tes hi s firs t--an dver y likel y la st- -l ove-letter f rom 
Fran ce ; an d the l ittle old countrym oth er who lies a wak e co m p os ing th e  In 
M e mor i a m of her son fo r a localpa p er ; and theb urg la r "down  'Oxton " who takes o ff his ca p as a ch il d'sf u ner al goes by . The fe eling is: "This is 
a th ing  out o fmyheart  thatI  am  show ing. T hi s is m y bes tconfessi on,
and nobody knew the re was  this  wi thin me."  Ia m s ure thatthat  great
glo ryofpoetr y i n  one' s he a rt  do e s not  wai t  on achie v em ent . If  it did,
wh a t cen turie s w o uld di e un glorified. It isj ust perfection  app e a rin g,t o
yo ur  equal pride a ndsh a m e, a per fe ction thatnever ta un t s you  withyour
l imitati o n s
 facetious_auctioneer
with the_village policeman's arm round_his neck_was_sitting on_the_wall
at the end_of the field,_addressing everybody very frequently_as
"Gentlemen." Sheep arrived_and_sheep departed constantly.

"Isn't it terribly slavish, somehow?" said Anonyma. "The sheep
never being consulted at_all._Bought and_sold_and_smelt and spat
upon as if_they had no heart beating_beneath that_wool. No 'Me,' as
Jay used to say."

Mr. Russell_heard_and remembered. There_were few doubts left in him as to
the truth_of his too-funny miracle.

He had a_little tune, the_scaffolding_of_a poem, in his_head, and to the
sound of it_he lived that day, although I_don't expect he ever got the
poem into_words.

If you start your idea along_an uncertain course, you have_to stop_and
start afresh to get it_straight. You can_never finish_it when once_it has
a crooked swing. I gather_that motor cyclists_occasionally have much the
same experience with_their_machines.

But Mr. Russell,_with_a_mind steering_a tangled course,_asked_for
nothing better._He_was very nearly sure of romance_for_the first time
in his life.

I hope that_the feeling of making_poetry_is not confined to_the people
who write it down._There is no luxury like it,_and I_hope we_all share
it. I think perhaps the same thrill that goes through_Mr. Russell and me
when the ghost_of a completed thing_begins to_be_seen, also delights_the
khaki_coster who_writes his first--and very likely last--love-letter from
France;_and the_little old country mother who lies_awake composing the In
Memoriam_of_her son for a local paper;_and the burglar "down 'Oxton" who
takes_off his cap as a_child's_funeral_goes by. The feeling is:_"This is
a thing out of my_heart that I_am showing. This is my best confession,
and_nobody_knew there was this within me."_I_am sure that that great
glory of_poetry_in_one's heart does not wait_on achievement. If it did,
what centuries_would die unglorified. It is just perfection appearing, to
your_equal pride and_shame, a perfection that never_taunts_you_with your
limitations