If technique is of no interest to a writer, I doubt that the writer is an artist.
Poetry is the art of creating imaginary gardens with real toads.
As for butterflies, I can hardly conceive of one's attending upon you; but to question the congruence of the complement is vain, if it exists.
The enslaver is enslaved, the hater, harmed.
We are suffering from too much sarcasm.
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."