Who cares about a kid from the Midwest writing pentameter? It's stupid.
What are men? Children who doubt.
The poem is itself a mirror.
The personal vocabulary, the individual melody whose metre is one's biography, joins in that sound, with any luck, and the body moves like a walking, a waking island.
I look in the mirror. There's me. What's in the mirror is not real. So am I unreal?
The English language is nobody's special property.