ARS POETICA
The poem is a sacred vessel. Place in it nothing
But the purest thoughts
In whose depths seethe fermenting images
Like golden bubbles in a fine old wine.
Empty into it the flowers that in their eternal cycle
Wrest the world from winter,
Distilling memories of time we cannot recapture
And tuberose dripping drops of dew,
So that our wretched lives may be made as sweet
As an unknown essence
Simmering in the fires of a tender heart:
Of such unequalled balm one drop is enough!
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