A poet—
is a
poet,
is
a—poet,
remains a poet!
even
while he
is silent-
and dreaming.
Before his fame—be it
real
or imagined—before
any fantasies regarding
the perfect
line lengths
and feet
that will lead—eventually
to editions—with line numbers
and foot-
notes
and those great discrepancies over specific pagination—
but—and
even! before it
exists in the scrawniest graphemes;
before its symbolism
gets cast-
out in cannibalistic symbols—distilled in
a manner characteristic
of a stale and inescapably
pre-given system;
before it even begins
to live
for him!
The thing gleams—
the poem
in its raw first idea.
It exists—in his dream
at its absolute
best
at present—when
nothing yet
has been
said—and nothing—
absolute,
heartrending,
beautiful nothing—
has ever been made
so perfect-
ly
manifest.
