Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of the angels.
Before I am your daughter,
your aunt, niece, or cousin,
I am my own person,
and I will not set fire to myself
to keep you warm.
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
—T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
I WROTE A POEm
the clouds are above
but i am below.
how the fuck do i get up there.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
… Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye, and ear;—both what they half create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognize
In nature and the language of the sense
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.
William Wordsworth’s “Lines, Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey”