Clearest moments occur not so often
That they should be ignored. The lightning flash,
The concept, obtuse, starting to soften.
The glow of embers deep among the ash.
It is this that each critic must pursue:
Not quibbling detail, nor yet wider range,
But to illuminate dark words anew.
And then from the forge of the mind, so strange
In the instant of bright understanding
To draw out the steel, and to sharpen it,
To then flay from the flesh, so demanding
The bone-marrow, the essence, the rennet.
The smith and the butcher both work the blade;
the blood-brightest words realised, not made.
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