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.
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