The province of the poem is the world. When the sun rises, it rises in the poem and when it sets darkness comes down and the poem is dark . and lamp… - William Carlos Williams

The beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

THE THOUGHTFUL LOVER

Deny yourself all
half things. Have it
or leave it.

But it will keep — or
it is not worth
the having.

Never start
anything you can't
finish — However do not lose
faith because you
are starved!

She loves you
she says. Believe it — tomorrow.

But today
the particulars
of poetry

that difficult art
require
your whole attention.

What is the use of reading the common news of the day, the tragic deaths and abuses of daily living, when for over half a lifetime we have known that they must have occurred just as they have occurred given the conditions that cause them? There is no light in it. It is trivial fill-gap. We know the plane will crash, the train be derailed. And we know why. No one cares, no one can care. We get the news and discount it, we are quite right in doing so. It is trivial. But the hunted news I get from some obscure patients' eyes is not trivial. It is profound: whole academies of learning, whole ecclesiastical hierarchies are founded upon it and have developed what they call their dialectic upon nothing else, their lying dialectics. A dialectic is any arbitrary system, which, since all systems are mere inventions, is necessarily in each case a false premise, upon which a closed system is built shutting out those who confine themselves to it from the rest of the world. All men one way or another use a dialectic of some sort into which they are shut, whether it be an Argentina or a Japan. So each group is maimed. Each is enclosed in a dialectic cloud, incommunicado, and for that reason we rush into wars and prides of the most superficial natures. Do we not see that we are inarticulate? That is what defeats us.