To begin, at the beginning.

The best poem is that whose worked-upon unmagical passages come closest, in texture and intensity, to those moments of magical accident.

And I rose In rainy autumn And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.

It is spring, moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black, the cobbledstreets silent and the hunched courters'-and-rabbits' wood limping invisible down to the sloeblack, slow, black, crowblack, fishingboat-bobbing sea.

Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, Time held me green and dying Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

I sang in my chains like the sea

You just wait. I'll sin 'til I blow up!