“Fiona MacLeod! There will ever be a grain of bitterness in my acknowledgement of him, or of Yeats, or of any of the modern Celtic twilighters, an irritable impatience of their pale fancies, their posturing sonorities and follies. Yet on a certain side they are 'getting' me, and sometimes a phrase, a thought, has positively uncanny, mesmeric power over my very flesh.

This sort of dream poetry is clearly a drug, and of the most insidious... Then poetry casts its net, its iridescent net, and the silvery fish of intellect is meshed in the music of lost days and beauties forgone.”