Father Sun—Sister Moon Dancing in the beauty bright Turning round in beams of light That defy the dark of night Music of the blessed spheres Melodies for those who hear Poetry does what prose tries to do but never quite succeeds because it is always going somewhere. Prose is about from here to there. Poetry forces the mind to stop and look at what is right in front of you. It is not about from here to there but from here to here. Prose runs. Poetry walks.