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Silence and the Bogey of the Ideal
There were two points of discussion today (neither drawing directly from the poems we discussed, unfortunately) that I’d like to ruminate for a bit. We ate together—I hope you’ll pardon me this bit of public digestion. The first was Alan’s suggestion that some people believe poetry to be handicapped as a form of expression because…
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Auden has an essay on Frost that I like.
Auden has an essay on Frost that I like. Here’s how it ends: Hardy, Yeats, and Frost have all written epitaphs for themselves. Hardy I never cared for life, life cared for me. And hence I owe it some fidelity… Yeats Cast a cold eye On life and death. Horseman, pass by. Frost I would…