Whatever pains disease may bring Are but the tangy seasoning To Loves delicious fare.

All that we do is touched with ocean, and yet we remain on the shore of what we know

Odd that a thing is most itself when likened

That's the main business of the poem!-to see if you can't make up a language that sets all your selves talking at once-all of them being fair to each other.

Whatever pains disease may bring Are but the tangy seasoning To Loves delicious fare.

Writing poetry is talking to oneself; yet it is a mode of talking to oneself in which the self disappears; and the product's something that, though it may not be for everybody, is about everybody.

What is our praise or pride but to imagine excellence and try to make it? What does it say over the door of heaven; but, homo (sapiens) fecit?