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Whenever you feel an impulse to perpetrate a piece of exceptionally fine writing, obey it-whole-heartedly-and delete it before sending your manuscript to press. Murder your darlings. sic
Arthur Quiller-Couch -
I could not find the way to God;There were too many flaming sunsFor signposts, and the fearful roadLed over wastes where millionsOf tangled comets hissed and burned-I was bewildered and I turned.
Arthur Quiller-Couch
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O pastoral heart of England! like a psalmOf green days telling with a quiet beat.
Arthur Quiller-Couch -
I am mistaken if a single epigram included fails to preserve at least some faint thrill of the emotion through which it had to pass before the Muse's lips let it fall, with however exquisite deliberation.
Arthur Quiller-Couch -
Only the heelOf splendid steelShall stand secure on sliding fate,When golden navies weep their freight.
Arthur Quiller-Couch -
The best is the best, though a hundred judges have declared it so; nor had it been any feat to search out and insert the second-rate merely because it happened to be recondite.
Arthur Quiller-Couch -
And rather than make the book unwieldy I have eschewed notes-reluctantly when some obscure passage or allusion seemed to ask for a timely word; with more equanimity when the temptation was to criticize or 'appreciate.' For the function of the anthologist includes criticizing in silence.
Arthur Quiller-Couch