Remarks on Poetry and the Physical World

After reading Ash Wednesday she looked once at the baked beans and fled. Luncheonless, poor girl, she observed a kind of poetic Lent— and I had thought I liked poetry better than she did. I do. But to me its most endearing quality is its unsuitableness; and, conversely, the chief wonder in heaven (whither I also am sometimes transported) is the kind of baggage I bring with me. Surely there is no more exquisite jointure in the anatomy of life than that at which poetry dovetails with the inevitable meal and Mrs. B. sits murmuring of avocados.