The twilight is long fingers and black hair.
The only real evidence that any critic may bring before his gaze is the finished poem.
Experience means conflict, our natures being what they are, and conflict means drama.
For some reason most critics have a hard time fixing their minds directly under their noses, and before they see the object that is there they use a telescope upon the horizon to see where it came from.
The Spring I seek is in a new face only.
What is the poem, after it is written? That is the question. Not where it came from or why.