The Intrinsic Form of the Poem

 From whatever source the poet derives the initial word through which he works, it is a compelling word, seeking to express itself, as it were, in a more defined and concrete word. And as this word exists in both intellect and sense, it is a sensible and spiritual matter which is produced -- images and ideas, and words as signs of these. The binding together of all this matter is the intrinsic form of the poem: a communication of the exemplary word to the poem through this form.

[John Alphonsus Duffy, A Philosophy of Poetry Based on Thomistic Principles, p. 183.]

Teresa

 Today is the feast of St. Teresa of Avila, Doctor of the Church. From The Way of Perfection (Chapter 5):

You already know that the first stone of this foundation must be a good conscience and that you must make every effort to free yourselves from even venial sins and follow the greatest possible perfection. You might suppose that any confessor would know this, but you would be wrong: it happened that I had to go about matters of consciences to a man who had taken a complete course in theology; and he did me a great deal of mischief by telling me that certain things were of no importance. I know that he had no intention of deceiving me, or any reason for doing so: it was simply that he knew no better. And in addition to this instance I have met with two or three similar ones. 

 Everything depends on our having true light to keep the law of God perfectly. This is a firm basis for prayer; but without this strong foundation the whole building will go awry....

The Blush of Morn Is on the Brine

 Song of the Fairies to the Sea-Nymphs
by Anna Seward 

 Hasten, from your coral caves,
 Every nymph that sportive laves
 In the green sea's oozy wells,
 And gilds the fins, and spots the shells!
 Hasten, and our morrice join,
 Ere the gaudy morning shine! 

 Rising from the foamy wave,
 Instant now your aid we crave;
 Come, and trip like our gay band,
 Traceless on the amber sand.
 Haste! or we must hence away,
 Yet an hour, and all is day! 

 At your bidding, from our feet
 Shall the ocean monsters fleet,
Sea-nettle and sting-fish glide
 Back upon the refluent tide.
 Haste! the dawn has streak'd the cloud,
 Haste! the village cock has crow'd. 

 See! the clouds of night retire,
 Hesper gleams with languid fire!
 Quickly then our revel join,
 The blush of morn is on the brine!
 Loiterers, we must hence away,
 Yonder breaks the orb of day.