How Does One Compete

How does one compete with a Frost or a Keats, a Dickinson or Whitman for words, how can we say in our language today what we feel within has been stirred. Like those in our past who intrinsically grasped the secrets to living and more, their visions, dreams, and ideas it seems came through their own secret doors. I make no pretense I could ever dispense the levels of beauty they wrought, Wordsworth, Thoreau, Tennyson, and Poe A sampling of pure genius thought. The list could on from Homer to Donne, Psalms to Shakespeare and Blake, but this I know well, they cast quite at a spell on this amateur poet of late. I beg their forgiveness to think that I may hold a candle to a stanza or line, that any one of them penned, each one a Godsend, still echoing throughout time. Dare I call them “exalted ones” though fading voices by and by, I wonder if in one hundred years will they still bring smiles and sighs? Will the books remain with all their names, and thoughts and deeds be told, will some still grasp the readers task is to open wide one’s soul? I rest my case here in this place for answers befuddle me, but I for one am glad they came and left their lasting, loving legacies.