The poet marries the language, and out of this marriage the poem is born.

I'll love you till the ocean Is folded and hung up to dry And the seven stars go squawking Like geese about the sky.

A verbal art like poetry is reflective; it stops to think. Music is immediate, it goes on to become.

Follow, poet, follow right To the bottom of the night, With your unconstraining voice Still persuade us to rejoice; With the farming of a verse Make a vineyard of the curse, Sing of human unsuccess In a rapture of distress; In the deserts of the heart Let the healing fountain start, In the prison of his days Teach the free man how to praise.

All that we are not stares back at what we are.

Aside from purely technical analysis, nothing can be said about music, except when it is bad; when it is good, one can only listen and be grateful.

Oh, how I wish that Orwell were still alive, so that I could read his comments on contemporary events!