Poetry
By: Eleanor Farjeon
What is poetry? Who knows?
Not the rose,
but the scent of the rose;
Not the sky,
but the light of the sky;
Not the fly,
but the gleam of the fly;
Not the sea,
but the sound of the sea;
Not myself,
but something that makes me
See, hera and feel something that prose cannot.
What is it? Who knows?