Poetry is an effort of a dissatisfied man to find satisfaction through words. - Wallace Stevens

The way through the world
Is more difficult to find than the way beyond it.

Just as my fingers on these keys Make music, so the self-same 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 of him, ephebe, to make, to confect The final elegance, not to console Nor sanctify, but plainly to propound.