Poetry is a peerless proficiency of the imagination.
When one is frank, one's very presence is a compliment.
We don't like flowers that do not wilt; they must die, and nine she-camel hairs aid memory.
The prey of fear, he, always curtailed, extinguished, thwarted by the dusk, work partly done, says to the alternating blaze, "Again the sun! anew each day; and new and new and new, that comes into and steadies my soul."
The weak overcomes its/ menace, the strong over-/comes itself.
Poetry is all nouns and verbs.