How a little conception deifies attention and
feelings to its most reductive reefing and
unreefing – sailing onwards within a wind
of bravado. Or famine. Every fourteen lines of
this steady poetry’s breeze devotes itself to ropes
holding all in. At the helm of sails, small poems
are imprisoned by that wind, steered to their
corrections – those temple-walls. And in this
sectarian spirit, the difference of opinion devotes
to a chance of what might happen within; what
might be. There is an open ocean of hauling
beyond, disentangling lines onwards as bidden
not hidden – the farewell to such remedy – and
elevated for this devotion to a little irony.

[Found in Coleridge’s ANIMA POETÆ]