Sir, I admit your gen’ral rule
That every poet is a fool:
But you yourself may serve to show it,
That every fool is not a poet.
“On barren days,
At hours when I, apart, have
Bent low in thought of the great charm thou hast,
Behold with music’s many-stringed charms
The silence groweth thou. O rare delight!
The melody upon clear strings inflected
Were dull when o’er taut sense thy presence floweth,
With quivering notes’ accord that never palleth.”
Ezra Pound | “Canzon: Of Incense”