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"The poet’s mind is ... a receptacle for seizing and storing up numberless feelings, phrases, images, which remain there until all the particles which can unite to form a new compound are present together."

WEBSTER was much possessed by death	
And saw the skull beneath the skin;	
And breastless creatures under ground	
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.	
 
Daffodil bulbs instead of balls	         
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!	
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs	
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.	
 
Donne, I suppose, was such another	
Who found no substitute for sense;	          
To seize and clutch and penetrate,	
Expert beyond experience,	
 
He knew the anguish of the marrow	
The ague of the skeleton;	
No contact possible to flesh	          
Allayed the fever of the bone.
.    .    .    .    .    .    .    .
 
-- TS Eliot, 'Whispers of Immortality'

"the more perfect the artist, ... the more perfectly will the mind digest and transmute the passions which are its material"

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