Full Grown Poet

Diplomat.  Moderator.  Poet.

Who do they belong to?

Where do I stand as playwright in the scirel war?  Who claims me?  Who do I try to unite and blend?

When the Full-Grown Poet Came

When the full-grown poet came

Out spake pleased Nature (the round impassive glove, with all its shows of day and night) saying, 

He is mine.

But out spake the Soul of man, proud, jealous and unreconciled

Nay, he is mine alone.

--Then the full-grown poet stood between the two, and took each by the hand;

And to-day and ever so stands, as blender, uniter, tightly holding hands,

Which he will never release until he reconciles the two,

And wholly and joyously blends them.

--Walt Whitman