The poet is a man who lives at last by watching his moods. An old poet comes at last to watch his moods as narrowly as a cat does a mouse.
I omit the unusual—the hurricanes and earthquakes—and describe the common. This has the greatest charm and is the true theme of poetry. You may have the extraordinary for your province, if you will let me have the ordinary. Give me the obscure life, the cottage of the poor and humble, the workdays of the world, the barren fields, the smallest share of all things but poetic perception. Give me but the eyes to see the things which you possess.
if we look at the mansion with the neatly trimmed gardens,yes they are fine, but look at the shack put together with what could be found, an irish settler with a large family living there!, things of little value strewn around it!,and cooking smells surrounding the line of clothes out to dry!,children filthy playing some made up game screaming in joy in the yard!,poetry in motion,to make my mind work and hopefully yours?. michael jameson email@example.com
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