Poetry and Form
Let the Greek mould his clay To the forms he’s planned, And take increasing pleasure In the product of his hands: But to us it’s blissful when We clutch at the Euphrates, And in the flowing element, Swish to and fro, with ease. Quenching, so, my burning soul, I’ll utter what I feel: Gathered in the poet’s pure hand The waters will congeal.
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