And if a man could ask for a potato in the form of a poem, the poem would not be merely a more romantic but a much more realistic rendering of a potato. For a potato is a poem; it is even an ascending scale of poems; beginning at the root, in subterranean grotesques in the Gothic manner, with humps like the deformities of a goblin and eyes like a beast of Revelation, and rising up through the green shades of the earth to a crown that has the shape of stars and the hue of Heaven.
G. K. Chesterton, "The Slavery of Free Verse", Fancies Versus Fads.
I'm currently going through a rather brutal period of grading, so things will likely be light here and perhaps also next week.
