Doeg, though without knowing how or why,
Made a still a blundering kind of melody;
Spurr'd boldly read more

Doeg, though without knowing how or why,
Made a still a blundering kind of melody;
Spurr'd boldly on, and dash'd through thick and thin,
Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in;
Free from all meaning whether good or bad,
And in one word, heroically mad.

There's no money in poetry, but then there's no poetry in money, either.

There's no money in poetry, but then there's no poetry in money, either.

Poetry is plucking at the heartstrings, and making music with them.

Poetry is plucking at the heartstrings, and making music with them.

It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things.

It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things.

Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them.

Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them.

You speak
As one who fed on poetry.

You speak
As one who fed on poetry.

Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess what is seen during read more

Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess what is seen during a moment.

The poet is the priest of the invisible.

The poet is the priest of the invisible.

Poetry is the art of uniting pleasure with truth.

Poetry is the art of uniting pleasure with truth.