Anthropologists are a connecting link between poets and scientists; though their field-work among primitive peoples has often made them forget the la… - Robert Graves

Down on his knees he sinks, the stiff-necked King, Stoops and kneels and grovels, chin to the mud. Out from his changed heart flutter on startled wing The fancy birds of his Pride, Honour, Kinglihood. He crawls, he grunts, he is beast-like, frogs and snails His diet, and grass, and water with hand for cup. He herds with brutes that have hooves and horns and tails, He roars in his anger, he scratches, he looks not up.

This seems to me a philosophical question, and therefore irrelevant, question. A poet's destiny is to love.

Let all the poison that lurks in the mud, hatch out.