In the great cities, winter glitters with art and feasting. But poetry, the country cousin, sees only the dearth of the fields.
Abyss-mongering makes professors and poets feel daring.
Title deeds generally outlast poems.
When poets go off the boil, they sound like bumble bees; when critics do, they sound like sewing machines.
Rhyme and meter force gaps in meaning so the muse can enter.
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