A poem in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having for its immediate object, pleasure, not truth.
Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem.
Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells, From the bells, bells, bells.
Blood was its Avatar and its seal.
It would be mockery to call such dreariness heaven at all.
The greater amount of truth is impulsively uttered; thus the greater amount is spoken, not written.