"Don't love a poet," said he. "His incompleteness and incompetence will wear you out. His days, too dark, only shot through occasionally by a grand radiance; and like the weather nothing about him is predictable, is consistent."
"But I don't," said she. "It is true that I have loved many poets—Blake, Wordsworth, Rilke—and you are right. They are incomplete: they cannot complete me. They cannot complete me as a man in flesh would; as you, standing here with me, alive, would. I can love words on a page; but a heart, that's divine poetry."
"But I don't," said she. "It is true that I have loved many poets—Blake, Wordsworth, Rilke—and you are right. They are incomplete: they cannot complete me. They cannot complete me as a man in flesh would; as you, standing here with me, alive, would. I can love words on a page; but a heart, that's divine poetry."
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