When the poem has at last
been brought to birth,
I rest, or stand, as both proud parents do,
blessed by the loving bed;
but I love too, the memory
of what brought being to this poem:
the seeming insignificant events of the day,
that neighboured with some memory;
that chimed with books half read;
which joined half-thoughts together like new-stringed white pearls,
and then spoke in some wordless tongue
and mental paintings without form
somewhere in mind;
and behind it all
the briefest flashes of the workings of the world…
and wonder; awe.
Michael Shepherd
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-poem-s-prehistory/
