"Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;"
If one sets about considering these lines as poetry, as something different from prose, a question likely to arrest our attention is "What is it that makes it poetry?"
I look forward to the listers' participation in this debate -- a debate, though, that has occupied critical attention all along and, therefore, might seem rather iterative. But I'm sure this is a debate that warrants an unremitting engagement with the beauty of art -- an enterprise that hardly ever fails to delight.