To gaze at a river made of time and water <br />And remember Time is another river. <br />To know we stray like a river <br />and our faces vanish like water. <br /> <br />To feel that waking is another dream <br />that dreams of not dreaming and that the death <br />we fear in our bones is the death <br />that every night we call a dream. <br /> <br />To see in every day and year a symbol <br />of all the days of man and his years, <br />and convert the outrage of the years <br />into a music, a sound, and a symbol. <br /> <br />To see in death a dream, in the sunset <br />a golden sadness--such is poetry, <br />humble and immortal, poetry, <br />returning, like dawn and the sunset. <br /> <br />Sometimes at evening there's a face <br />that sees us from the deeps of a mirror. <br />Art must be that sort of mirror, <br />disclosing to each of us his face. <br /> <br />They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders, <br />wept with love on seeing Ithaca, <br />humble and green. Art is that Ithaca, <br />a green eternity, not wonders. <br /> <br />Art is endless like a river flowing, <br />passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same <br />inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same <br />and yet another, like the river flowing.<br /><br />Jorge Luis Borges<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-art-of-poetry/
