“For it is not metres, but a metre-making argument that makes a poem--a
thought so passionate and alive that like the spirit of a plant or an
animal it has an architecture of its own”- Emerson
Your smile is selfish and sensual;
A poet, with Apollo’s privilege,
Dressed in the loneliness of civility
Where is the fire, the flame,
The grab for passion,
That goes beyond the fame
Of a painted world.
Show me how the greening earth makes you feel,
How the curdled fields of winter
Light your dreams; show me these things,
Before a fairy fire, so I know
You are more alive, than you seem.