Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance.
Poetry increases the feeling for reality.
It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.
The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.
I was myself the compass of that sea: I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw Or heard or felt came not but from myself; And there I found myself more truly and more strange.
The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.