When the poem has at last <br />been brought to birth, <br />I rest, or stand, as both proud parents do, <br />blessed by the loving bed; <br /> <br />but I love too, the memory <br />of what brought being to this poem: <br />the seeming insignificant events of the day, <br />that neighboured with some memory; <br />that chimed with books half read; <br />which joined half-thoughts together like new-stringed white pearls, <br /> <br />and then spoke in some wordless tongue <br />and mental paintings without form <br />somewhere in mind; <br /> <br />and behind it all <br />the briefest flashes of the workings of the world… <br />and wonder; awe.<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-poem-s-prehistory/
