Wandering Thought # 28

Poetry is no pastime or leisurely endevour; it is life and death and so is the vessel flooding with their secrets, unfolding their most inward temple. Poetry, we are drawn to it as a moth to a flame, a lover to his beloved, and is hence tyrannical, irrational, and unfree. We pursue it as though we are submitting to a fate most sublime and kingly, one elevating us to our highest height, even in the solitude of our woods and cloisters, even as it burns us slowly and achingly in the abysses of darkness and depression. For poetry — as philosophy, and all spiritual arts — is a lone star, is a solitary act and endeavour, one communing us with existence in its entirety, planting us like a quivering seed in the fountainhead of God, there to vanish and become the house of eternity.

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