I have analyzed mine, and it is not so with me.
If I say I am enchanting or false or despicable it is because I know it's true. Not because I say it but because I have tested and proved it. I feel the textures of my life with the tips of my fingers. I turn my senses outward and let the old winds blow over them—icy, balmy, harsh, gentle, scorching, cooling. I suffer for it but I know those winds: songs of seas and stars and of little pebbles are in their thunderous-dim wailing: life is in the soft stinging perfume of their wings.
No breath of poetry and beauty comes to me that I do not pay for with the beating ache of my Heart, the nervous tensions of my Body, the fraying and shredding of my Soul. If any beauty or poet-thing comes easily and gives me pleasure and not pain, I know I have not yet got it and that it will come again.
It will come again: with the pain.
I can't eat cake and have it.
I can't make silk purses out of sows' ears.
Those things I learn nearly perfectly from playing on my harp with the Worn Strings.
