Ariel was glad he had written his poems. <br />They were of a remembered time <br />Or of something seen that he liked. <br /> <br />Other makings of the sun <br />Were waste and welter <br />And the ripe shrub writhed. <br /> <br />His self and the sun were one <br />And his poems, although makings of his self, <br />Were no less makings of the sun. <br /> <br />It was not important that they survive. <br />What mattered was that they should bear <br />Some lineament or character, <br /> <br />Some affluence, if only half-perceived, <br />In the poverty of their words, <br />Of the planet of which they were part.<br /><br />Wallace Stevens<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-planet-on-the-table/
