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In search of Poetry






                                           Blake: "O Rose thou art sick!"



                                          When  I  read  Thomas  Gray's  poem  I  believed  (however
                                          inaccurately) that I had penetrated to the heart of poetry.
                                          I knew that Gray was a great writer because of the way
                                          he made me feel. I knew that Shelley was a great writer
                                          because  of the way  he made  me  feel. If my  professors
                                          could not account for that feeling, their opinions didn't

                                          have  to  be  taken  too  seriously.  At  the  same  time,
                                          however, I knew of no work which could further what I
                                          had already done. The poets I was reading were ones my
                                          professors approved of -or might approve of: Yeats, Eliot
                                          and Pound; Dylan Thomas, W.H. Auden, Robert Graves,
                                          Robert  Lowell.  Also  Alan  Dugan,  George  Starbuck,
                                          Arthur Freeman. John Crowe Ransom gave a charming
                                          reading  and  I  acquired  his  Selected  Poems.  Robert
                                          Sward was teaching at Cornell at that time, and I knew
                                          him a little. I thought his book, Uncle Dog, was a delight.





































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