We talk so abstractly about poetry because all of us are usually bad poets.
It cannot be denied that for a society which has to create scarcity to save its members from starvation, to whom abundance spells disaster, and to whom unlimited energy means unlimited power for war and destruction, there is an ominous cloud in the distance though at present it be no bigger than a man's hand.
I asked the zebra,Are you black with white strips?Or white with black strips?And the zebra asked me,Are you good with bad habits?Or are you bad with good habits?Are you noisy with quiet times?Or are you quiet with noisy times?Are you happy with sad days?Or are you sad with happy days?Are you neat with some sloppy ways?Or are you sloppy with some neat ways?And on and on and on and onAnd on and on he went.I'll never ask a zebraAbout stripesAgain.
...and yet, though desirous to be gone, she could not quit the mansion-house, or look an adieu to the cottage, with its black, dripping and comfortless veranda, or even notice through the misty glasses the last humble tenements of the village, without a saddened heart. Scenes had passed in Uppercross which made it precious. It stood the record of many sensations of pain, once severe, but now softened; and of some instances of relenting feeling, some breathings of friendship and reconciliation, which could never be looked for again, and which could never cease to be dear. She left it all behind her, all but the recollection that such things had been.