Into a corner of the room she got, where she could no longer elude him. Near her sat the long coffin, its ends resting on black stands made for the purpose. They struggled, and then as they stood breathless with hot startled faces, there was a crash, the sound of broken glass and the dead body of his brother with its staring eyes rolled, from the fallen coffin, out upon the floor. Don’ts for Critics[2] (_Apropos of recent criticisms of Imagism, vers libre, and modern poetry generally._) ALICE CORBIN HENDERSON Don’t confuse vers libre and Imagism. The two are not identical. One pertains to verse, the other to vision. Don’t attempt to “place” Imagism until you know what it is. Don’t substitute irritability for judgement. Don’t attempt to establish absolutes—positive or negative—by precedents of a half or a quarter of a century, or a mere decade ago. Don’t be a demagogue. Don’t try to speak the last word—you can’t. Don’t be dishonest with yourself. Analyze your own inhibitions. Don’t believe that beauty is conventionality, or that the classic poets chose only “nice” subjects. Don’t forget that the age that produced the cathedrals produced also the grotesques. Don’t be afraid to expand. Don’t deny the poet his folly, or expect him to appear always pompously on stilts. Think of the poets who have fun in their make-up, and you think of some of the greatest—Shakespeare, Chaucer, Villon,—(by no means excepting Lewis Carroll, whose Jabberwock is almost “_pure_” poetry and the poetic prototype of much excellent modern painting.) Don’t relax your own appreciation of humor to the soft, easy level of the newspapers. Don’t squirm when a poet is a satirist. We need the keen vision. Not all pessimism is unhealthy, and not all optimism healthy. Don’t think that Spoon River is more sordid than Athens, Greece, or Athens, Georgia, than Sparta or Troy, or—the Lake Shore Drive. Don’t think that the poet must always _copy_ something or somebody, and that something usually of a recent date. Correspondences, to be valuable, must be genuine and of the spirit, rather than of the letter.—When Mr. Powys brackets the names of Chaucer and Edgar Lee Masters, he is illuminating. When Mr. Hervey or Mr. Willard-Huntington-Wright discover each a different one of Mr. Masters’ copybooks, and publish their discoveries, the absurdity is manifest. Picture Mr. Masters sitting with Robinson’s book in one hand, and somebody’s Small Town in the other, inditing Spoon River with his teeth! Don’t expect a poet to repeat himself indefinitely, however much you may admire his earlier work. You may appreciate his later work in time. Don’t condemn the work of a man whose books you have not read. Unfortunately there are no civil service examinations for critics. Don’t think that competition is unhealthy for the poet, or that his poetry suffers thereby.