It is a test (a positive test, I do not assert that it is always valid negatively), that genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.

Distracted from distraction by distraction

The rats are underneath the piles/ The Jew is underneath the lot.

We have all our private terrors, our particular shadows, our secret fears. We are afraid in a fear which we cannot face, which none understands, and our hearts are torn from us, our brains unskinned like the layers of an onion, ourselves the last.

Maturing as a poet means maturing as the whole man, experiencing new emotions appropriate to one's age, and with the same intensity as the emotions of youth.

The eastern light our spires touch at morning, The light that slants upon our western doors at evening, The twilight over stagnant pools at batflight, Moon light and star light, owl and moth light, Glow-worm glowlight on a grassblade. O Light Invisible, we worship Thee!

All art emulates the condition of ritual. That is what it comes from and to that it must always return for nourishment.