With six meats and twelve wines or else without To walk another room...Monsieur and comrade, The soldier is poor without the poet’s lines. - Wallace Stevens

"I

Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the selfsame sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.

Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,

Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna:

Of a green evening, clear and warm,
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders, watching, felt

The basses of their beings throb
In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.

from "Peter Quince at the Clavier

The great poems of heaven and hell have been written and the great poem of earth remains to be written.

It is never the thing but the version of the thing.