Poetry is a re-assembly by one who stole the secret,

Of people and things as they had meant to be.

Poetry is a complete record of the feeling you have

When you shut your eyes, and clench your fist,

And make an "oh!" of longing, the muscles of

Your throat held taut.

Poetry is what you thought about when you were a

Child, somehow not forgotten in the business

Of growing up, and discovered to be true, and

Valuable, and possible just as you always

Thought it was.

Poetry is the consciousness a high-jumper has at

The instant he clears the bar of being in per-

fect form at the limit of his power; finding

When he touches ground that he has broken a record.

Poetry is a cry of wonder and despair upon seeing

what no systems of philosophy will solve, and

No religions speak of, man's utter loneliness,

His insignificance upon a star, looking up at other stars.

Poetry is the tremendous aching exultation of an

Architect who sees as a man in the street,

Poetry is the blue flash that jumps just before

the switch is closed and the current leaps

Along a new wire.

Poetry is a man's salute from the street to an air-

plane over head, imagining a thousand others

Waving with him, "Hello...!"