What is a poem? A craft of words and sense,
Of sinewed syntax wrought with utmost care,
Of tropes and lines, and simple ornaments,
Steered on their course by winds grown wise with wear.
A craft of silk so finely sewn it seems
Quite seamless, like the world it softly mocks,
So perfect that it flows in satin streams
And sings as softly as a cradle rocks.
Whence does it come? A loving calloused hand
Inured to tine and toil, and yet so deft
Each syllable and serif's turn is planned
As surely as the finest fiber's weft.
We come to know this mystery by degrees --
A poem is all, and yet is none of these.
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