Mahler wrote a lieder about it, a song, the composers wish not to be scrutinized as he wrote his music.  Don't go prying into the hive the look at the bee making honey;  even to the bee the process is a mystery.  Wait for the collection to become honey.

A poem might start as a simple statement.  It is not yet known as a poem, not put into the proper character's voice, yet just a thought.

"Difficult it is, for he who loves words, to love himself."  That might be one such thought.  One always returns to words, the beautiful loving maternal figure who's gentle beauty is contained, spoken of, in lines in all the books upon his shelf.

Is this the essential backdrop of Shakespeare, that love of words, represented in the true loves of his works, that discovery, that seems at odds with practicality, the things one has to do...  finding in it a kind of religious compassion enabled toward self and other beings...

To be worked on...