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.
In the great cities, winter glitters with art and feasting. But poetry, the country cousin, sees only the dearth of the fields.
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