“Poetry is soul-making,” says Keats. Mere words make only sound, but poetry makes worlds, unwinding the coiled creativity of God’s voluminous loom to weave again the stories of angels and earthlings. Like lightning, ideas are made that strike the ground of our corporeal being, and from the tired dust of ages sprouts new life, awash with the splendor of spring rain and full of the wonder of all things true. Beauty is not a dress, but the naked skin of reality seen through the knowing eyes of the poet. Bless the true, but exalt unendingly the beautiful, for its goodness is all that brings the mind to its senses.