April 8: Lives of the Poets
Dickinson spoke in staccato — if she spoke at all —
While Whitman held forth with bluster.
Emerson, Boston Brahmin, was all haught and pretense;
Thoreau, dirt under his fingernails, all grit.
Shakespeare was a bawdy, profane chap in his spare time.
So was Donne, when no one was looking.
Wordsworth, head in the clouds;
Frost, treading and philosophizing;
Is this what we mean when we speak of Voice?
Then why do they echo even now?