Poetry and Form

 Let the Greek mould his clay
To the forms he’s planned,
And take increasing pleasure
In the product of his hands:

But to us it’s blissful when
We clutch at the Euphrates,
And in the flowing element,
Swish to and fro, with ease.

Quenching, so, my burning soul,
I’ll utter what I feel:
Gathered in the poet’s pure hand
The waters will congeal.

                             Goethe