Poetry restores language by breaking it.
“Born I was to meet with age,
And to talk life’s pilgrimage,
Much, I know, of time is spent,
Tell I can’t what’s resident.
Howsoever, cares, adieu;
I’ll have nought to say to you.
But I’ll spend my coming hours
Drinking wine, and crown’d with flowers.”
Robert Herrick | “On Himself”