The poems that I love come in many shapes, sizes, styles and types.
Quite a lot of them say things that I can’t find another way to say – which is why poetry works, I guess. It is the unsayable, the longed for, the just out of reach… “tread softly because you tread on my dreams”….
He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven. William Butler Yeats.
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.