So the struck eagle, stretchd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, Viewd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wingd the shaft that quiverd in his heart. – Lord (George Gordon) Byron
Poetry criticism at its worst today is mean in spirit and spiteful in intent, as if determined to inflict the wound that will spur the artist to new heights if it does not cripple him or her. – David Lehman
