The secret of poetry is never explained — is always new. We have not got farther than mere wonder at the delicacy of the touch, & the eternity it inherits. In every house a child that in mere play utters oracles, & knows not that they are such, ‘Tis as easy as breath. ‘Tis like this gravity, which holds the Universe together, & none knows what it is.


— Ralph Waldo Emerson

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