Page:Poems by Isaac Rosenberg (1922).djvu/39

 How, like a sad thought buried in light [woven] words, Winter, an alien presence, is ambushed here. See from the fire-fountained noon there creep Lazy yellow ardours towards pale evening, Dragging the sun across the shell of thought; A web threaded with fading fire; Futile and fragile lure, a July ghost Standing with feet of fire on banks of ice, My frozen heart, the summer cannot reach— Hidden as a root from air, or star from day, A frozen pool whereon mirth dances, Where the shining boys would fish.

"I believe that all poets who are personal see things genuinely—have their place. One needn't be a Shakespeare and yet be quite as interesting. I have moods when Rossetti satisfies me more than Shakespeare, and I am sure I have enjoyed some things of Francis Thompson more than the best of Shakespeare. Yet I never meant to go as high as these. I know I've come across things by people of far inferior vision that were as important in their results to me. I am not going to refute your criticisms; in literature I have no judgment, at least for style. If in reading a thought has expressed itself to me in beautiful words, my ignorance of grammar, etc., makes me accept that.