I love poetry. I consume it like all works of beauty. Slowly. I’ll take a day to savor it. To mull over it. To read it aloud and hear it echo off wall of my office. I’ll consume it one delicious word at a time and smile.
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
I did not come to poetry until 5 years ago. I don’t know why I excluded it from my reading. Now I cannot go a day without reading one. How odd is that? The people I grew up with would not believe it.