On Teaching The Young
The young are quick of speech.
Grown middle-aged, I teach
Corrosion and distrust,
Exacting what I must.
A poem is what stands
When imperceptive hands,
Feeling, have gone astray.
It is what one should say.
Few minds will come to this.
The poet’s only bliss
Is in cold certitude—
Laurel, archaic, rude.
poem by Yvor Winters
Added by Poetry Lover
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