Thanks to Borders drastic after-New Year’s-calendar sale, every morning at work I have some poetry to greet me. Today’s comes from May Sarton:
Poetry exists to break through to below the level of reason where the angels and monsters that the amenities keep in the cellar may come out to dance, to rove and roar, growling and singing, to bring life back to the enclosed rooms where too often we are only ‘living and partly living’.
Which brings to mind several things, one is that I clearly need to read more Sarton and another is I wonder what Frost could say to that and lastly is that it is a little stuffy in here. Poetry please?