The young are quick of speech.
Grown middle-aged, I teach
Corrosion and distrust,
Exacting what I must.
A poem is what stands
When imperceptive hands,
Feeling, have gone astray.
It is what one should say.
Few minds will come to this.
The poet-s only bliss
Is in cold certitude-
Laurel, archaic, rude.
On Teaching The Young
Yvor Winters
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Poem topics: young, speech, cold, middle, teach, poet, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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